The Way Home ....................................................................................................................................................1

Henry Handel Richardson ........................................................................................................................1

PART I..................................................................................................................................................................1

I.i.............................................................................................................................................................1

I.ii. ...........................................................................................................................................................6

I.iii. ........................................................................................................................................................11

I.iv.........................................................................................................................................................17

I.v..........................................................................................................................................................23

I.vi.........................................................................................................................................................29

I.vii. .......................................................................................................................................................33

I.viii. ......................................................................................................................................................37

PART II. ..............................................................................................................................................................43

II.i. .........................................................................................................................................................43

II.ii. ........................................................................................................................................................50

II.iii.......................................................................................................................................................54

II.iv. .......................................................................................................................................................62

II.v. ........................................................................................................................................................67

II.vi. .......................................................................................................................................................71

II.vii. ......................................................................................................................................................75

II.viii.....................................................................................................................................................80

II.ix. .......................................................................................................................................................86

PART III.............................................................................................................................................................92

III.i........................................................................................................................................................92

III.ii.......................................................................................................................................................97

III.iii....................................................................................................................................................103

III.iv....................................................................................................................................................108

III.v. .....................................................................................................................................................115

III.vi....................................................................................................................................................122

III.vii...................................................................................................................................................127

III.viii..................................................................................................................................................131

III.ix....................................................................................................................................................138

III.x. .....................................................................................................................................................141

THE ancient little town of Buddlecombe, originally pressed down the mouth of a narrow valley to the sea,

from which it is protected by rampart and breakwater, has, in the course of the centuries, scaled the nearer of

the two hills that confine it. Nowadays its streets go everywhere up and down. A precipitous lane is climbed

by the ridgelike steps of an Italian donkeypath; the old town gardens, massively walled, are built in tiers,

so that the appletrees on the higher levels scatter their blossoms on the gardens beneath. Coming from the

upland, three drivingroads drop into the town at a bold gradient; and vehicles, whether they mount or

descend, creep like snails. Halfway down the sheerest of the three, the quaint little old houses, that set in

oddly enough just where the road is steepest, appear to cling shoulder to shoulder, each a storey or a

halfstorey lower than the last, their lines all out of drawing with age and the insecurity of their foothold;

while those at the bottom of the hill, seen from this point but as a dimpling cluster of gables, dormers,

chimneys, look, till you are virtually upon them, as if they were standing in the sea. The roofs of one and all

are silvered with the mortar of innumerable repairs, some of their ancient tiles flying off afresh in every

The seafront is crescentshaped; and a high, wooded cliff, which leaves room for no more than a footpath

between it and the surfrolled shingle, cuts the town in two. The smaller half, grouped about the harbour,

includes the old customhouse, a couple of ramshackle magazines and their yards, an ancient inn or two, all

bustling places once on a time, when elephants' teeth and gold dust were unshipped here, and the stuffs and

linens of England arrived on packhorses for transit to France; when, too, much lucrative wine and

spiritrunning went on with the French coast. Now, there is little doing, either here or in the tiny antiquated

storehouses and weighingsheds out on the famous old stone quay that crooks round the harbour. In these

sheds children play or visitors shelter while peeping forth at the great waves which, in stormy weather, toss

up over the breakwater; and the storehouses are closed and deserted. A claim to notice, though, they still

have. More than one of them is tinted a delicate pink; and the rays of the setting summer sun, catching this,

reflect it like a rose in the harbour; which sometimes, half full, lies a pool of melted turquoise; sometimes,

during the springtides, when the moored boats ride level with the quay, has no more colour in it than an

To get the best view of the town you must row out beyond harbour and mole, or, better still, swim out, on one

of those deadcalm days that every summer brings days when the yellow cliffs across the bay send down

perfect golden shadows in the blue mirror of the sea. Then, lying pillowed on this saltest, most buoyant water,

glance back to where, grouped in that perfect symmetry that seems the lost secret of old townbuilders, the

little place on its guncliffs lies curved to the bay. Viewed thus, it looks like a handful of grey shells

clustered on a silver shingle pearl, not stone grey for there is no dourness about Buddlecombe: light and

graceful of aspect, it might have suffered bodily transport at the hands of some giant Ifrit, from the French

coast over the way. Its silveriness is dashed only by the creeper on the square churchtower perched, this,

too, on the very cliff edge a creeper which betimes in summer the salt air dyes a bloodred; and by an old

jetblack house, tarred and pitched against the breakers which, in a southwest gale, beat to its topmost

windows, and hurl roots and branches of seaweed up the slope of the main street.

Above the town the green hillsides are dotted with goodly residences, in which officers on halfpay, and

AngloIndians in search of clemency, lie snug for the rest of their dormouse days. The houses are as secluded

as a foliage of almost tropical luxuriance or walls well over man's height, with great hedges atop of these, can

make them; and the loveliness of their jealously hidden gardens is only to be guessed at from peeps through a

door left ajar by a careless errandboy; from the bold application of an eye to a keyhole; or, in midsummer,

from the purple masses of buddleia and the wealth of climbingroses pink and crimson, yellow and white

In this pleasant spot Richard Mahony had made his home. Here, too, he had found the house of his dreams. It

was built of stone under a tangle of creeper was very old, very solid: floors did not shake to your tread,

and, shut within the four walls of a room, voices lost their carrying power. But its privacy was what he valued

most. To the steep road on which it abutted the house turned a blank face or blank but for entrancedoor

and one small window while, in a line with it, uphill and down, to conceal respectively flower and

kitchengardens, ran two arms of massy wall. In addition to this, the front door was screened by a kind of

sentrybox porch, open only on one side. In this porch was set a tiny glass oval; and here one could stand,

secure from rough weather or the curiosity of an occasional passerby, and watch for mounting postman or

expected guest; just as no doubt fifty odd years before, through this very peephole, anxious eyes had

strained for newscarrier or outrider bringing tidings of sailor son or soldier husband, absent on foreign

On stepping over the threshold you found yourself at once on the upper floor; for so abruptly did the ground

on the farther side fall away that the house was one storey to the road, two to the garden. The livingrooms

were on the higher level, with a fine view over town and bay all but one, a snug little oakpanelled parlour

on the ground floor; and here it was that, one autumn morning between eight and nine o'clock, the Mahonys

sat at breakfast. Although the air of the young day was mild in the extreme, a generous fire burned in the

grate and roared up the chimney, entirely putting to shame, with its scarlet vigour, the wraithlike patch of

Mary, seated behind the urn, looked very thoughtful; and this was the more marked because, in obedience to

the prevailing fashion, she had swept the heavy bands of her hair off cheeks and forehead, and now wore it

braided high in a crown. The change threw up the fine, frank lines of her head and brow; and atoned for the

youthful softness it robbed her of, by adding to the dignity and character of her face.

More than once during the meal she had made as if to speak. But as certainly as she opened her lips, Richard,

who was deep in The Times of the day before, would either absently hold out his cup to her; or attack the

muffindish anew; or, in turning a richly crackling sheet of the paper, exclaim: "Ha! Here we have it! Mr.

Disraeli threatens to resign. The poor Queen will be forced to send for that turncoat Gladstone." And Mary

But when he had pushed cup and saucer from him, wiped his moustache, and driven back his chair, fleetly to

"Richard, dear I want to tell you something. What we suspected is true. The Burroughs have called in Mr.

Robinson. Selina says his gig stood outside their house yesterday for quite a time."

"And that's not the most annoying thing, either. He has been sent for to 'Toplands' as well."

After this she was no longer in doubt whether he heard her. For though he went on reading, his face changed

in a way she well knew. To herself she called it "going wrong" "his face went wrong" was how she put it

and in the year they had been in England, she had watched what was formerly a casual occurrence turn to

almost a habit. Now Richard had always been a very transparent person, showing anger, pride, amusement,

all too plainly. But this was something different. It was not so much an expression as a loss of expression;

and it happened when anyone laid a chance finger on some sensitive spot he had believed securely hidden.

Put thus out of countenance he wore an oddly defenceless, even a hapless air; and it distressed her to see him

give himself away in front of strangers. Hence, she had a fresh reason for trying to be beforehand with news

of a disagreeable nature. In the old days, she had wished to hinder him feeling hurt; now it was to hinder him

In the present case his sole response was a curt: "Well! . . . fools will be fools," as he turned a page of the

paper. A moment later, however, he did what she expected: laid the Times down and stalked out of the room.

She threw a motherly glance after him, and sighed. Poor old Richard! She had been bound to tell him, of

course; but by doing so she had furnished him with a worry for the whole day. It was clear he had set his

heart on keeping "Toplands"; and now, after consulting him on and off for a couple of months, the silly

people seemed to be going back to that rednosed, ungentlemanly Mr. Robinson. She couldn't understand it.

Still, in Richard's place, she would have taken it calmly. Ten to one turncoats like these would soon come

running to him again. Time was needed for people here to find out how clever he was.

Having cleared the breakfasttable, she rang the bell for the servant to take away the tray. But neither her

first ring nor a second was answered. For at this moment the girl, her skirts bunched high above a pair of neat

prunellas, stood ruefully eyeing the condition of the lower lawn, wondering how she could make her master

From the diningroom Mahony had stepped out into the garden. This was saturated with moisture. During the

night a sea fog had crept up and enmuffled the land; and though by now a watery sun was dissipating the

mists they lingered only about remote objects, like torn handfuls of cotton wool they had left

everything drenched and sodden. As he crossed the grass of the upper lawn, the water came in over the tops

of his carpetslippers; bushes and shrubs against which he brushed delivered showers of drops; and

gossamerwebs, spun by the thousand in lovely geometrics that hung whiteygrey and thick as twine, either

shattered themselves on his shoulders, or laid themselves filletwise round his brow. At the foot of the

garden he traversed a second lawn, in which his feet sank and stuck, and climbed three wooden steps set

against a side wall. He had hammered these steps together himself, that he might have a view to seaward. A

small cutting, in the end wall, as well as all the windows of the house, looked to the town and the row of

yellow cliffs beyond. They dated from a time when a land view of any kind was preferred to that of the bare

Here he now stood and stared at the palely glittering water. But he did not see it. His mind was busy with the

uncomfortable impression left on it by Mary's last statement. At a stroke this had laid waste the good spirits

in which he had got up that morning; even if, for the moment, it had done no more than pull him up short, as

one is pulled up by a knot in a needleful of packthread, or a dumb note on a keyboard. For the feeling

roused in him was no such simple one as mere mortification at the rumoured loss of the big house known as

"Toplands"; though the dear soul indoors put it down to this, and he should continue to let her think so. No;

there was more behind. But only now, when alone with himself, did he mutter under his breath: "Good Lord!

He got no further; for here was it that Selina's prim voice broke on his ear. The girl had followed in his steps

to say that Jopson, the liveryman, was at the back door and wished to speak to him. A patient also waited in

Jopson, who was a short man of enormous bulk, had been accommodated with a chair, after his drag uphill.

He rose at Mahony's approach, but continued to ease his weight against the doorpost.

"Sarry, surr, but I ca'an't let 'ee 'ave the mare today. 'Er's arff 'er feed. Sarry, surr. T'others is every one

bespoke. No, surr, mine's t' only livery in the town. One o' the inns might let 'ee 'ave a turnout, of a sart; but

I dunno as I'd advise 'ee to go to they. They's almighty partiklar, surr, 'ow their 'arses is drove. 'Twouldn't do

"Well, surr, and since you mention it yourself, Allfred did say yesterday as 'ow you took 'er h'up ovurr

Brandlebury 'Ill faster than 'er 'dd anny mind to go. The 'ills is steep 'ereabouts, surr, and cruel 'aard on the

'arses. An' 'tis naat the furst time neether. If you'll excuse me sayin' so, surr, them 'oove seen it do tell as 'ow

"Well, upon my word, Jopson, this is something new! I drive for show? . . . I overwork a horse? Why, my

man, where I come from, it used to be dinned into me on all sides that I was far too easy with them."

"Ca'an't say, surr, I'm sure." Jopson was perfectly civil, but equally noncommittal.

"But I can!" gave back Mahony, with warmth. "I had two of my own there, let me tell you, and no beasts

were ever better treated or cared for. They certainly hadn't to be walked up every slope for fear they'd lose

their wind. They took their honest share of the day's work. For where I come from . . ." At the repetition of

"Aye, surr, ahl very well, I dessay, for such a place Australy, as I unnerstand," answered Jopson unmoved.

"But 'twouldn't do 'ere, surr in England. Thic's a civilised country." And so on to a somewhat acid

wrangle, in which Mahony, galled by the doubt cast on his compassion for dumb brutes, was only restrained

by the knowledge that, in this matter of conveyance, he was wholly in Jopson's power.

"Really, my dear, if it weren't that the fellow kept his hat in his hand and scattered his 'sirs' broadcast, it might

just have been old Billy de la Poer himself I was talking to. Do you remember Billy? And how, in his palmy

days, one had to wheedle a mount out of him, if he wasn't in the vein to hire? The very same uppish

independence! I don't know, I'm sure, what this country's coming to. Though I will say, with all his

The woman who was waiting for him brought a summons to one of the lonely little farms that dotted the

"Three miles out and only shanks' ponies to get me there just my luck! Imagine, Mary, a place with but a

single horse for hire! Tonight I must go thoroughly into the money question again. I shan't be satisfied now,

my dear, till I am independent of Jopson and his great fat pampered quadruped. Stable with him? Not I! Not

It was between nine and ten o'clock, the hour of day at which the little town was liveliest. Shopkeepers had

opened their shutters, sawdusted and sprinkled their floors, picked over their goods, unlocked their tills and

tied on clean white aprons. They might now be seen sunning themselves in their doorways, exchanging the

time of day with their neighbours, or shooing off the dogs which, loosed from chain and kennel, frolicked,

yapped and sprawled over the pavement. Mounted butcherboys trotted smartly to and fro. A fisherman,

urging a sluggish horse and laden cart uphill, cried mackerel at two a penny. And, from big houses and little,

women were emerging, on foot or in donkey and ponychaises, to do their marketing, chat with one another,

glean the news that had accumulated overnight. For every one knew everybody else in Buddlecombe, and

was almost more interested in his neighbour's business than in his own. You could not, vowed Mahony, enter

a shop for a penn'orth of tintacks the selling of which was conducted as if you had all eternity to spare

for it; what with the hunting up of a small enough bit of paper, the economical unravelling of a tangled length

of twine without learning that Mr. Jones's brindled cow had calved at last, or that the carrier had delivered

to Mr. Du Cane still another hogshead of brandywine. This, together with many a sly inquiry as to where

you yourself might be bound for, or the trend of your own affairs. Alongside the rampart stood half a dozen

ancient men of the sea, discussing, with vigour, God knew what. A bottlenosed constable, stationed in the

middle of the road to superintend a traffic that did not exist, gossiped with the best.

Down this street Mahony walked, in the surtout, light trousers and belltopper which he still preferred to the

careless attire of a country doctor. He was greeted with bows and bobs and touched forelocks. But the fact of

his appearing on foot brought him many a quizzing glance; and there were also shoppers who came at a trot

to the door to see and stare after him. Or perhaps, he thought with a grimace, the more than common interest

he roused this morning was due to his illtreatment of Jopson's mare, the tale of which had no doubt already

been buzzed abroad. He was really only now, after several months' residence in Buddlecombe, beginning to

understand the seven days' wonder with which he must have provided the inhabitants by settling in their

midst he, who bore with him the exotic aroma of the Antipodes! At the time, being without experience of

His visits in the town paid, he chose to leave it by the seafront and climb the steeper hill at the farther end,

rather than retrace his steps and present himself anew to all these curious and faintly hostile eyes.

Thus began for him a day of fatigue and discomfort. The promise of the early morning was not fulfilled: the

sun failed; down came the mist again; and the tops of the hills and the high roads that ran along them were

lost in a bank of cloud. He was for ever opening and shutting his umbrella, as he passed from rain to fog and

fog to rain. Not a breath of air stirred. His greatcoat hung a tonweight on his shoulders.

He walked moodily. As a rule on his country rounds, he had the distraction of the reins: his eye, too, could

range delightedly over the shifting views of lovely pastoral country, fringed by the belt of blue sea. Today,

even had the weather allowed of it, he could have seen nothing, on foot between giant hedgerows that walled

in the narrow lanes leading from one cottage and one village to the next. Plodding along he first tried, without

success, to visualise the pages of his passbook; then fell back on the deeper, subtler worry that was in him.

This, sitting perched hobgoblinlike on his neck, pricked and nudged his memory, and would not let him rest.

So that, on coming out of a house and starting his tramp anew, he would murmur to himself: "Where was I? .

. . what was it? Oh, yes, I know: just suppose this should turn out to be Leicester over again!"

For the present was not his first bid for a practice in England. That had been made under very different

IT was at another breakfasttable, something over a year previously, that Mary, having opened and read it,

Now my darlings I don't want to hurry you away from all the grandeurs and gaieties of the Metropolis, and

have you grumbling oh botheration take that old mother of ours; but I do long to see you both, my children,

and to get my arms round you. Your room is ready, the bed made and aired Lisby has only to run the

bedwarmer over the sheets for the last time. My home is small as you know, Polly, but you shall have a

royal welcome, my dears, and I hope will make it yours till you have one of your own again.

"A royal welcome indeed, Mary! . . . one may say our first genuine welcome to England," declared Mahony;

and threw, in thought, a caustic sideglance at the letters he had received from his own people since landing:

Irish letters, charming in phrase and sentiment, but to his own Irish eyes only partially cloaking the

writers' anxiety lest, as a result of his long absence from the country, he should take Irish words at their face

value, take what was but the warm idea of an invitation for the thing itself, and descend to quarter himself

upon them. "Now what do you say, love? Shall we pack our traps and be off? Yes, yes, I suppose I shall have

"Ssh, Richard! . . . not so loud." Mary spoke huskily, being in the grip of a heavy cold and muffled to the

chin. "I should like it, of course. But remember, in engaging these rooms you mentioned a month if not

"I did, I know. But . . . . Well, my dear, to speak frankly the sooner I walk out of them for the last time the

better I'll be pleased. How the deuce that hotel we stopped at had the effrontery to recommend them staggers

me!" And with aversion Mahony let his eye skim the inseparable accompaniments of a second class London

lodging: the stained and frayed table linen, cracked, odd china, dingy hangings; the cheap, dusty coal, blind

panes, smutstrewn sills. "Fitzroy Square indeed! By hanging out of the window till I all but overreach

myself, to catch a glimpse of a single sooty tree branch. And the price we're asked to pay for the privilege! I

assure you, Mary, though we had fork out rent for the full six weeks, we should save in the end by going. The

"Yes. But of course we've done some rather extravagant things, dear. Cabs everywhere because of your

silly prejudice against me using the omnibus. Then that concert. . . the Nightingale, I forget her name . . . and

the Italian Opera, and Adelina Patti. I said at the time you should have left me at home; you could have told

me all about it afterwards. What with gloves and bouquet and headdress, it must have cost close on five

"And pray are we to be here at last, in the very heart of things, with twenty years' rust oh, well! very

nearly twenty to rub off, and yet go nowhere and hear nothing? No, wife, that's not the money I begrudge.

All the same, just let me tell you what our stay in London has run to I totted it up at three A.M. when

those accursed milkwagons began to rattle by" and here he did aloud for Mary's benefit a rapid sum in

mental arithmetic. "What do you say to that? No, I know I haven't," he answered another objection on her

part. "But on second thoughts, I've decided to postpone seeing over hospitals and medical schools till I'm

settled in practice again, and have a fixed address on my pasteboards. I shall then get a good deal more

deference shown me than I should at present, a mere nobody, sprung from the dickens knows where."

He had lighted the afterbreakfast pipe he could now allow himself, and pacing the room with his hands in

his dressinggown pockets went on: "This sense of insignificance regularly haunts me. I'm paying, I expect,

for having lived so long in a place like Ballarat, where it was easy to imagine oneself a personage of

importance. Here, all such vanity is soon crushed out of one. The truth of the matter is, London's too big for

me; I don't feel equal to it I believe one can lose the habit of great cities, just like any other. And

sometimes, especially since you've been laid up, Mary for which I hold myself mainly responsible, my

"Still we can say, Richard, can't we, we've seen all there is to be seen?" threw in Mary with a kind of cheerful

inattention. Risen meanwhile from the breakfasttable, she had opened the door of the chiffonier; and her

thoughts were now divided between Richard's words and the fresh depredations in her store of provisions that

Mahony snorted. "A fiftieth part of it would be nearer the mark! Well, as I was saying . . . if you'll do me

the kindness to listen . . . this last week or so, since I've been mooning about by myself Gad! to think how

I once looked forward to treading these dingy old streets again half silly with the noise of the traffic . . .

upon my word, wife, that begins to get on my nerves, too: it goes on like a wave that never breaks; I find

myself eternally waiting for a crash that doesn't come. Well, as I say, when I push my way through all these

hard, pale, dirty London faces yes, my dear, even the best of 'em look as though they needed a thorough

scrub with soap and water . . . as for me, if I wash my hands once, I wash 'em twenty times a day; I defy any

one to keep clean in such an atmosphere. All strange faces, too; never one you recognise in the whole bunch;

while out there, of course, the problem was, to meet a person you did not know. Well, there come times, if

you'll believe me, when I've caught myself feeling I'd hail with pleasure even a sight of old

Whatwashisname? you know, Mary, that vulgar old jackanapes on board who was for ever

buttonholing me . . . my particular b�te noire yes, or even sundry other specimens of the omnium

"Faith and wasn't I? . . . at the time. Indeed, yes." And Mahony smiled; for at Mary's words a picture rose

before him of his fellowpassengers as he had last seen them, standing huddled together like frightened sheep

on the platform of the great railway terminus: an outlandish, countrified, coloniallooking set if ever there

was one, with their overbushy hair and whiskers, their overloud shepherds'plaids and massy watchchains,

the ladies' bonnets (yes, Mary's too!) seeming somehow all wrong. Even the most cocksure of the party had

been stunned into a momentary silence by the murk of fog and steam that filled the space under the lofty

roofing; by the racket of whistling, snorting, blowing engines; the hoarse shouts of cabbies and porters. But

the first shock over, spirits had risen in such crescendo that with a hasty: "Come, love, let us get out of this!"

he had torn Mary from voluminous embraces, bundled her into a fourwheeler and bidden the driver whip

up. A parting glance through the peephole showed the group still gesticulating, still vociferating, while

crowns and halfcrowns rained on grinning porters, who bandied jokes about the givers with expectant Jehus

and a growing ring of onlookers. Their very luggage, rough, makeshift, colonial, formed a butt for ridicule.

Lost in such recollections they included the whole dirty, cold, cheerless reality of arrival; included the

first breath drawn of an air that smells and tastes like no other in the world; the drive in a musty old growler

reeking of damp straw, and pulled by something "God might once have meant for a horse!" to an hotel, the

address of which he had kept to himself: "Or we should have the whole lot of 'em trapesing after us!" sunk

in these memories, Mahony let a further remark of Mary's pass unheeded. But when, with a raucous cry, a

butcher's boy stumped down the area steps, bearing in his wooden tray the very meat, red and raw, that was to

be dished up on their table later on, he swung abruptly round, turning his back on a sight he could not learn to

tolerate. "Was there ever such a place for keeping the material needs of the body before one? . . . meat, milk,

bread! . . . they're at it all day long. My dear, I think I've heard you say your mother's house is not cursed with

a basement? Come, love, let us accept her invitation and go down into the country. The English country,

Mary! Change of air will soon put you right again, and I could do, I assure you, with a few nights'

uninterrupted sleep. Besides, once I'm out of London, it will be easier to see how the land lies with regard to

This last reason would, he knew, appeal to Mary, whose chief wish was to see him back at work. And sure

For her part Mary saw that Richard's mind was as good as made up: to oppose him would only be to vex him.

Of course, it went against the grain in her to be so fickle: to take lodgings for six weeks and abandon them at

the end of three! (Vainly had she tried, at the time, to persuade Richard to a weekly arrangement. Richard had

bought the smile on their landlady's grim face; and she felt certain did not regret it.) But though she hadn't

shown it, she had been shocked to hear the sum total of their expenses since landing. Nor was there anything

to keep them in London. They had fitted themselves out from top to toe, in order to lose what Richard

persisted in calling "the diggers' brand"; and, say what he might to the contrary, they had seen and heard

enough of London to last them for the rest of their lives. Museums, picture galleries, famous buildings: all

had been scampered through and they themselves worn out, before the first week was over: her shipsoftened

feet still burned at the remembrance. Yes, for herself, she would be well pleased to get away. Privately she

thought London not a patch on Ballarat; thought it cold, comfortless, dreary; a bewildering labyrinth of dirty

streets. And the longer she stayed there the more she regretted the bright, clean, sunny land of her adoption.

Thus it came about that before the third week was over, they were in the train bound for Leicester.

It was a wet day. Rain set in at dawn, and continued to fall hour after hour, in one of those steady, sullen,

soulless downpours that mark the English autumn. Little could be seen by the two travellers who sat huddled

chillily in wraps and rugs, the soles of their feet burning or freezing on tin footwarmers seen either of the

castiron sky, over which drifted lower, looser bulges of cloud, or of the bare, flattish country through which

the train ran. On the one side the glass of the narrow window was crisscrossed with rain stripes; on the

other, the flying puffs of steam, unwinding from the engine like fleecy cardings, wearisomely interposed

between their eyes and the landscape. Now and then Mahony, peering disconsolately, caught a glimpse of a

lowlying meadow which, did a brook meander through it, was already half under water. Here and there on a

rise he distinguished a melancholy spinney or copse: in its rainy darkness, trailed round by wreaths of mist, it

looked as fantastic as a drawing by Dor�. On every station at which they halted stood rows of squat,

ruddyfaced figures, dripping water from garments and umbrellas, the rich mud of the countryside plastered

over boots and leggings. They made Mahony think of cattle, did these sturdy, phlegmatic countrypeople

the soaked and stolid cattle that might be seen in whitepainted pens beside the railway, or herded in trucks

along the line. And both men and beasts alike seemed insensitive to the surrounding gloom.

On the platform at Leicester, reached towards five o'clock, so many muddied feet had passed and repassed

that, even under cover, not a clean or a dry spot was left. And still the rain fell, hissing and spitting off the

edges of the roof, lying as chocolatecoloured puddles between the rails. In the stationyard the wet cabs and

omnibuses glistened in the dusk; and every hollow of their leather aprons held its pool of water. The drivers,

climbing down from their boxes, shook themselves like dogs; the patient horses drooped their heads and

"Good Lord! . . . what weather!" grumbled Mahony, and having got Mary into the little private omnibus that

was to bear them to their destination, he watched a dripping, beeryfaced coachman drag and bump their

trunks on to the roof of the vehicle, and stack the inside full with carpetbags and handportmanteaux. "Yet I

suppose this is what we have got to expect for the rest of our days. Keep your mouth well covered, my

Behind her mufflings Mary vented the opinion that they would have done better to time their landing in

"Yes; one forgets out there what an unspeakable climate this is. The dickens! Look at the mould on the floor!

I declare to you the very cushions are damp." Having squeezed into the narrow space left vacant for him,

Mahony vehemently shut the door against the intruding rain. And the topheavy vehicle set to trundling over

The omnibus drew up in a side street before a little redbrick house one of a terrace of six standing the

length of a broomhandle back from the road. A diminutive leaden portico overhung the door. Descending a

step and going through a narrow passage, they entered what Mahony thought would be but a dingy

sittingroom. But although small, and as yet unlit by candles, this room seemed all alive with brightness. A

clear fire burned in a wellgrate; a copper kettle on the hob shone like a great orange; the mahogany of the

furniture, polished to lookingglass splendour, caught and gave back the flames, as did also, on the table

spread for tea, a copper urn and the old dented, fishback silver. On the walls twinkled the glass of the family

portraits; even the horsehair had high lights on it. A couple of armchairs faced the blaze. And to this

atmosphere of cosy comfort came in, chill and numb, two sunspoiled colonials, who were as much out of

place in the desolate, rainswept night as would have been two lizards, but lately basking on a sunbaked

Thus Mahony, toasting his coattails before the fire, while their hosts were absent on the last ceremonies

connected with tea. And went on, warmed through now, both in mind and body: "I fear you've had a shocking

old grizzler at your side of late, love. But I've felt like a fish out of water. Idleness doesn't agree with me,

Mary. I must get back to work, my dear. I want a house of my own again too. When I see a snug little place

like this, after those unspeakable lodgings, why, upon my word it makes me feel inclined to jump at the first

"Oh, that would never do," said Mary with a smile. And their hands, which had met, fell apart at the sound of

It was also a cheerful evening; one that opened with jest and laughter. For barely were they seated at the

teatable when sister Lisby, who towered head and shoulders above her stout little dot of a mother Lisby

shamelessly betrayed a secret, telling how, while the travellers were upstairs removing their wraps, mother

had seized her and danced her round, exclaiming as she did: "Oh, my dear, aren't we grand? . . . aren't we

grand? Which I may mention was not intended for you, Polly I would say Mary. For I feel sure, if you

could see inside my mother's heart, you would find yourself there no more than fourteen the age you were

They all laughed; and Mother covered her old confusion by picking up the sugartongs and dropping an extra

"Now give over, miss, will you?" she said affectionately. "Any one but such a pert young thing as you would

make allowance for an old woman's pleasure at getting a son again. Readymade, too without any bother.

Eight of 'em, Richard my dear, have I brought into this world in my day a baker's dozen all told, boys and

girls together and not one is left to their poor old mother but this forward young party here. And she'd be

"My mother," said Lisby having filled and handed round the cups, she was now engaged in apportioning a

pork pie, performing the task with a nicety that made Mahony think of Shylock and his bond: not a crumb

was spilt or wasted "My mother would have me sit all day at the parlour window, on the watch for some

Prince Charming. To him she would gladly resign me. But because I wish to go out into the world and stand

"Lisby! Not woman's rights, I hope?" interposed Mary. And reassured: "Then, mother, I should let her try it.

Especially now you've got me to look after you. Lisby, my dear, if you had been in the colony with us in the

early days " and here Mary dilated on some of the hard and incongruous jobs she had seen women put

"Now, did you ever?" ejaculated Lisby with force, but a divided mind. At present she was carving a cold

chicken with the same precision as the pie. (Mahony laughed afterwards when, sunk deep in the feathers, he

lay watching the gigantic shadows flung by a single candle on the white ceiling, and Mary braided her hair;

laughed and said, Lisby's carving made him think of a firstyear medical performing on a frog.) "Never did I

hear tell of such things! I declare, my dear, I am reminded of Miss Delauncey of Dupew. You will remember

her, Polly I would say Mary." ("I think I do just remember the name," from Mary.) "Well, my dear, what

must she do but leave home against her father's will to go and be a governess in Birmingham." And

now Lisby in her turn held forth on the surprising adventures of Miss Delauncey, who, finding herself in a

This kind of thing happened more than once during the meal: the ball of talk, glancing aside from the guests'

remoter experiences, was continually coming back to Lisby and the world she knew. Her old mother, it

seemed to Mahony, was shyer, more retiring. But though she did not say much, it was she who peeped into

cups to see if the bottoms were showing; who put titbits on Mary's plate when Mary was not looking; pressed

Mahony to a dish of cheesecakes with a smile that would have won any heart. He returned the smile, accepted

the cakes, but otherwise, finding no point of contact, sat silent. Mary, with an eye to him through all Lisby's

But tea over, chairs drawn to the fire, feet planted on the fender, Mother turned her pretty old

pinkandwhite face framed in lisse cap and bands to Mahony, and seeing him still sit meditative, laid her

plump little hand over his long thin one, which rested on the arm of his chair. And as he did not resist, she

made it a prisoner, and carried it to her shiny old black silk lap. Sitting in this way, hand in hand with him,

she began to put gentle questions about the lives and fates of those dearest to her: John, John's two families of

children, and his wives, neither of whom, not the lovely Emma, nor yet soft, browneyed Jinny to whom,

through her letters, she had grown deeply attached could she now ever hope to know on earth. Next Zara,

whom she called Sarah: "For the name I chose for her at her baptism I still think good enough for her," with a

stingless laugh at her eldest daughter's elegancies. Steady Jerry, who would never set the Thames on fire.

Ned, poor dear unfortunate Ned, who had been a source of anxiety to her since his birth "Ah, but I was

troubled when I carried him, Richard!" from whom she had not heard directly for many a long day.

Inquiring thus after her brood, and commenting on what she heard with a rare good sense, she gradually lured

Mahony into a talkingfit that subdued even Lisby, and kept them all out of their beds till two o'clock in the

morning. Once started, Richard proved regularly in the vein; and Mary no longer needed to fear lest he be

thought dull or standoff. Indeed, she found herself listening with interest. For he told things gave reasons

for throwing up his Ballarat practice, described sensations on the homeward voyage and in London which

were new even to her. At some of them she rather opened her eyes. She didn't want to insinuate that Richard

was inventing them on the spur of the moment; but she did think and on similar occasions had thought

before now that certain ideas occurred to him only when he got fairly wound up: he was like a fisher who

didn't always know what he was going to catch. Besides, there was this odd contradiction in Richard: he

who was usually so reserved could, she had noticed, sometimes speak out more frankly, unbosom himself

more easily, to people he was meeting for the first time, than to those he lived his life with. It was as if he

THE nextdoor house, the first in the row, stood at right angles to the rest, and faced two diverging streets of

shops and stores. Further, the little leaden rainshield over the front door was supported by a pair of pillars

coloured to resemble marble, between which hung a red lamp. This lamp had burned there, night for night,

for over half a Century: the stone of the doorstep was worn to a hollow by the countless feet that had rubbed

and scraped and shuffled, under its ruby glow. For the house belonged to old Mr. Brocklebank the surgeon,

who was one of the original landmarks of the neighbourhood. He had, in fact, lived there so long that none

was old enough to remember his coming with the possible exception, said Mother, of old Joe Dorgan, for

sixty years past, ostler at the "Saddlers' Arms." Joe was now in his dotage, and his word did not count for

much; but in earlier life he had been heard to tell of the slim and elegant figure young Brocklebank had once

cut, in redingote, choker and flowered gilet; and of how people had thought twice before summoning him,

owing to his extreme youth. This defect time had remedied; and so effectually that it soon passed belief to

connect youth and slimness with the heavy and corpulent old man. When, for instance, mother came there as

a bride, he had seemed to her already elderly; the kind of doctor a young wife could with propriety consult.

The practice had flourished till it was second to none; and he was reported, being a bachelor and very thrifty,

not to say closefisted, to have laid by the thousands which in this town were commonly associated only with

leather or hose. But now he had all but reached the eighties; and despite one of those marvellous

countrybred English constitutions founded on ruddy steaks, and ale, and golden cheddars the

infirmities of age began to vex him. For some time past his patients had hesitated to call him out by night, or

in bad weather, or for what he might consider too trifling a cause; though they remained his faithful

adherents, preferring any day a bottle of Mr. B.'s good physic to treatment by a more modish doctor.

Recently, however, he had let two comparatively simple cases slip through his fingers; while the habit was

growing on him of suddenly nodding off at a bedside; what time the patient had to lie still until the old

gentleman came to himself again. A blend, too, of increasing deafness and obstinacy led him to shout people

down. So that altogether something like a sigh of relief went up when one fine day a greatnephew appeared,

and the rumour ran that Mr. B. was retiring: was being carried off to end his honourable and useful career

under another's tutelage; to be wheeled to the gravebrink in the humiliating bathchair to which he had

Lisby came primed with the news brought by the milkman on his early round to the breakfasttable.

And Mother, her first shock over and her eyes dried, fell into a reminiscent mood.

"Dear oh deary me! Old Mr. B. laid on the shelf! Why, it seems only like the other day I saw him for the first

time . . . when Johnny was born. Yet it must be nigh on fiveandforty years; Johnny will be fortyfive come

March. In walks Mr. B. I'd never needed a doctor till then and says to me me, poor young ignorant

thing thankful to have escaped with my life in he comes: 'Here's a fine fish we've landed today, madam!

Here's a new recruit for the Grenadier Guards! Twelve pounds if an ounce, and a leg like a threeyearold!' I

up on my elbow to see, and he quite gruffly: 'Lie down you villainous young mother, you! Do you want to

make an orphan of the brat?' He had always to have his joke had Mr. B. and we were good friends from that

day. One after another he brought the whole batch of you into the world. Deary me, I shall miss him.

Many and many's the time he's stepped over the railing with his weekly newssheet: 'Here's a murder case to

make you ladies' blood run cold,' he would say. Or: 'Another great nugget found on the goldfields!' for he

knew the ties I had with the colony. And the last sound I used to hear at night was him knocking out his pipe

on the chimneypiece. It was such a comfort to me after your father went and the boys scattered to

know we'd a man so close. Especially in '59, when those dreadful burglaries took place."

"Now, mother, give over trying to make yourself engaging," was Lisby's comment. "You know the truth is,

no one troubled less about the burglars than you. Before my mother went to bed she would lay out all the

silver and plate and her rings and brooches, in neat piles on the table, so as to save the robbers trouble should

"So as to save my own skin, you saucy girl! Well, well! . . . what's past is past. To be sure it wouldn't have

done for him to go on doctoring till he lost his memory, and perhaps mixed his drugs and poisoned us all."

"It would not indeed. And for the rest, my dear mother, I tell you what: Mary and I will take up our abode

At the moment, the words passed as the jest they were meant for. But they sowed their seed. Mahony ate his

toast and drained his cup with an absent air; and as soon as breakfast was over made Mary a private sign to

follow him upstairs. There, while she sat on the edge of the bed, he fidgeted about the room, fingering objects

"I spoke without reflection but, upon my soul, it does look rather like the finger of Providence. An opening to

crop up in this way at my very elbow! . . . one that's not to be despised either, if report speaks true. Really,

wife, I don't know what to think. It has quite unsettled me. Here have I been expecting to have to travel the

country, visiting this place and that, answering advertisements that lead to nothing, or myself advertising and

receiving no replies all so much nerve and shoe wear and a dreary business at best. You see, my dear,

what I need first of all is English experience. I mean" he made an airy gesture "I must be able to say,

when I find the perfectly suitable position I'm looking for: 'I've been practising in such and such a place for so

and so many years, and have had a firstclass connection there.' You notice, I hope, I have no intention

should I take the chance offered me, that is, and pop in here of the making it a permanency. It remains

my ambition to live in the country. But if only half what they say of old Brocklebank's affairs is to be

believed, a few years here wouldn't hurt me. There are pots of money to be made in these manufacturing

towns, once a practice is set going and this has existed for over half a century. Besides, it might even

improve under my hands . . . why not, indeed? Such a Methuselah must have been entirely out of date in

medicine. I confess it isn't exactly the spot I would have chosen, even to start in, were money and time no

object. But considering, Mary, what our expenses have been . . . the lateness of the season, too! Why, it's

virtually winter already, and the worst possible time of year to travel about in." And so on, with much more

in the same strain, and a final bait of: "Another point we mustn't lose sight of is that here, you, love, would

have the company of your mother and sister. And I think I know what a pleasure that would be to you."

"Why, yes, of course, as far as that's concerned," said Mary, who had not interrupted by a word.

"Why, yes," she said again, but slowly. "In one way. I agree it might be worth considering. But I wouldn't be

"Yes, and while I hum and haw and think myself too good for it, some one else snaps it up. The profession is

in very different case here, my dear, from what it was in the colonies. It's overcrowded... worked to death. I

can't afford to be too particular. Must just find a modest corner, slip into it and be thankful. And let me

give you a piece of advice, Mary," he went on more warmly, with the waxing impatience of a man who longs

to see his own hesitation overthrown. "It's no earthly use your comparing everything that turns up on this side

of the globe, with Ballarat. A practice like that won't come my way again; or at least not in the meantime.

Try, love, not to let yourself be influenced by the size of a house and the width of a street. I assure you once

more, you have no conception what these provincial concerns are worth. If I step into old Brocklebank's

Mary had run through so many considerations in listening, that she had really listened more to herself than to

him. Of course, much of what he said was sound. Did he settle here, it would save time and money and

one of her standing fears about the new venture had been that Richard would prove too hard to please. But for

him now to rush to the other extreme! Nor was she one to stand out for showiness and style; or rather, she

would not be, were Richard a different man. But he, with his pernickitiness! And it was all very well for him

to say, don't draw comparisons; how could one help it? To have flung up a brilliant practice, a big house and

garden, a host of congenial friends . . . for this a pokey house in a small dull street, in a dull, ugly, dirty town.

As for what she stood to gain by it, the living door by door with mother and sister, fond as she was of them

However, since the one way to deal with Richard was to give him his head, and only by degrees deftly trickle

in doubts and scruples, Mary smothered her own feelings for the time being. Perhaps he was right, said she:

the place might do for a start; and she was certainly against him going travelling in winter with the objection

he had to flannel. Mr. Brocklebank's advisers might, of course, ask a stiff price for the goodwill of the

practice; still, if he got on well for two or three years, that would soon be covered. Thus Mary, trusting to a

certain blind common sense that did exist in Richard for all his flightiness, if he was neither badgered nor

opposed. ("Just the Irish way of getting at a thing backwards!" was how he himself described it.) One point

though she insisted on; and that was, he should take an outside opinion on the practice before entering into

Entirely pacified, Mahony kissed her and together they went downstairs. According to Mother, who had now

to be drawn into confidence, the person to consult would be Bealby the chemist; he had dispensed for Mr. B.

ever since the old man grew too comfortable to do it for himself. So Mahony on with his hat and off to

Bealby's shop, well content to leave Mary to damp the exasperating flutter into which the news had thrown

her relatives. Well, no, he wouldn't say that: in Mother even this was bearable. It was true, declaring you

might knock her down with a feather, she had seated herself heavily in her chair by the fire, to think and talk

over the plan in detail. But her cheery old mind saw only the bright side of it; while her kindly, humorous

smile took the sting from fuss and curiosity. Lisby was harder to repress. She threw up her hands. "No! never

did I hear tell of such a thing, Polly I would say Mary! Going off to buy a practice, my dear, for all the

world as if it were a toothbrush or a cravat!" Richard safely out of the house, Mary felt constrained to come

"You must remember, Lisby, it doesn't seem quite such an important affair to Richard as it does to you. With

all his experience. Living in the colony, too, one learnt to make up one's mind quickly. You had to. Think of

shares, for instance. They might be all right when you went to bed, and by the morning have sunk below par;

so that you had to decide there and then whether to sell out or risk holding on." The mild amusement with

From the chemist Mahony got all the information he wanted and more. The object of his visit grasped, he

was led into a dingy little parlour behind the shop, where, amid an overflow of jars and bottles and

drawercases, Bealby carried on his exbusiness life. And both doors noiselessly closed to ensure their

privacy, the chemist a rubicund, paunchy old man, with snowwhite hair and whiskers himself grew

so private that he spoke only in a whisper, and accompanied his words with a forefinger laid flat along his

nose. This mysterious air gave the impression that he was divulging dark secrets; though he had no secret to

tell, nor would his hearer have thanked him for any. Plainly he was a rare old gossip, and as such made the

most both of his subject and the occasion. Mahony could neither dam nor escape from his flow of talk.

However, his account of the practice was so favourable that the rest had just to be swallowed even

disagreeable tittletattle about the old surgeon's mode of life. At the plum kept to the last Brocklebank, it

appeared, had actually been called in professionally to the great house of the district, Castle Bellevue

Mahony could not repress a smile; Bealby alluding to it with a reverence that would have befitted a religious

rite. Of more practical importance was the information that there were already two candidates for the practice

in the field; but that to these, he, Mahony, would no doubt be preferred; for both were young men, just about

to start. And: "We want no fledglings, no young sawbones in a position such as this, sir! Now with an elderly

man like yourself. . ." Wincing, Mahony contrived soon after to let slip the fact that he was but a couple of

"His eyes almost jumped out of his head when I said it, Mary. The fellow had evidently put me down for

sixty or thereabouts," he came back on the incident that night. "It made me feel I must be beginning to look a

"Not old, Richard. Only rather delicate. And the people here are all so rosy and sturdy that they don't

"Well, I'm positive he thought me a contemporary, if not just of old B.'s, at least of his own."

What he did not mention to Mary was the impression he saw he left Bealby under, that lack of success had

been the reason of his quitting Australia. Were he only more skilled at blowing his own trumpet! Actually the

old fool seemed to think he, Mahony, would be bettering himself by settling in Leicester!

"Well, sir, I can promise you, you will find an oldestablished, firstclass practice, such as this, a very

different thing from those you have been used to. England, doctor, old England! There's no place like it." At

which Mahony, who had himself, aloud and in secret, rung changes on this theme, regarded the speaker

his paunch, due to insufficient exercise; his sheeplike, inexperienced old face; his dark little livingroom, and

darker still, mysterious, provincial manner looked, and knew that he did not, in the very least, mean the

Mother sat by the fire in the twilight, her hands folded placidly in her lap. She was neither a sewer nor a

knitter. If not nimbly trotting about the house, in aid of the rheumaticky old servant, she liked best to sit still

and do nothing; which Richard said made her a most soothing companion. Her words were addressed to

Mary, who was rattling a sewingmachine as if her life depended on it. They also referred to a remark passed

in a pause of her handletwirling. This had constituted a criticism of Richard or as much of a criticism as

Mary could rise to. Which, here, she felt quite safe in making, so surely did she know Richard nested in

That afternoon it was December, and night now soon after three o'clock he had and not for the first

time stepped over the low railing that separated the gardenplots to say: "Come, Lisby, let us go

agallivanting!" Nothing loath, Lisby, also not for the first time, laid aside her needle, tied on bonnet and

tippet, and off they went arminarm, to prowl round the lighted shops of the town.

Mary's objection was: "But if he's wanted, mother! I shouldn't know where to send for him."

"My dear, Eliza would find him for you in less than half an hour. Besides, Mary, it's very unlikely anyone

"Yes, I suppose so. It's me that's silly. But you see, in Ballarat he never dreamt of going out without leaving

word just where he was to be found. Indeed, he seldom went out for pleasure at all. He was much too busy."

Mother did not put the question that would have leapt, under similar conditions, to Lisby's lips: "Then, why,

in the name of fortune, did he leave it?" She only said: "You must have patience, my dear."

"Oh, it's not me it's him I'm afraid of. Patience is one of the things Richard hasn't got."

There was a brief silence. Then: "You have a very good husband, Mary. Value him, my dear, at his true

She stirred the fire to a blaze which lit up their faces, and the manyfolded drapery of their gowns.

"I know that, mother. But he doesn't get easier to manage as he grows older. In some ways Richard is most

"And pray, doesn't the old tree get knobby and gnarled? . . . Take a hint from your mother, my dear for

though, Mary, you've been so long away from me, I know my own flesh and blood as no one else can. Be

glad, child, not sorry, if Richard has his little faults and failings even if you can't understand 'em. They

help to bind him. For his roots in this world don't go deep, Mary. He doesn't set proper store on the prizes

other men hanker after money and position and influence, and such like." She paused again, to add: "It's a

"Yes, and me so fond of them, too. But I'm not sure about Richard. He's got used, now, to being without

them, to having only himself to consider. I'm afraid he'd find them in the way."

"You say he's hard to manage, Mary," she went on. "But la! child, what does that matter? He's kind,

generous, straight as a die I'm sure I'm right in believing he's never done a mean action in his life?"

"Well, then!" said Mother: and her cheerful old tone was like a verbal poke in the ribs. "He might be easier to

manage, Mary and thoughtless . . . or stingy . . . or attentive to other women. You little know what you're

spared, child, in not having that to endure. There are some poor wives would think you like the princess in the

fairytale, who couldn't sleep for the pea." She fell into a reverie over this, sat looking into the heart of the fire.

"Men? ah, my dear! to me even the best of 'em seem only like so many children. We have to be mothers to

'em as well as wives, Mary; watch over them the same as over those we've borne; and feel thankful if their

nature is sound, behind all the little surface tricks and naughtinesses. Men may err and stray, my dear, but

they must always find us here to come back to, and find us forgiving and unchanged. But tut, tut, what a

sermon your old mother's preaching you! As if you weren't the happiest of wives," and she laid her soft old

hand on Mary's. "I got led into it, I suppose, because of the strong tie between us: you're more like me, Mary,

than any of the rest. Another thing, too: I'm a very old woman, my dear, and shan't live to see the end of the

day's business. So always remember, love, Mother's advice to you was this: not to worry over small things

the big ones will need all your strength. And you can't do Richard's experiencing for him, Mary, however

much you'd like to spare him the knocks and jars of it. But I do declare, here they come. Now what will

The shoppers' steps echoed down the quiet street really sounding like one rather heavy footfall and

turned in at the gate. And then there were voices and laughter and the sound of rustling paper and snipped

string in the little room, where Mary lit the lamp, and Lisby displayed her presents sweetmeats, a piece of

music she had coveted, a pair of pucecovered gloves, a new net for her chignon while Mother tried to

prevent the great round pork pie Mahony deposited on her lap, from sliding into the grate.

"Pooh! Such trifles! I shouldn't otherwise know what to do with my small change," retorted Mahony. And

Mary laughed and said: "Wait, mother, till the practice really begins to move, and then you'll see!"

"They hadn't when I came over. And Mary Ann has not knocked at the wall. Oh yes, the boy called with

The news of the empty afternoon, together with Mary's colonialism, grated on Mahony. "Do knight him, my

"Oh well, Bealby then. Though, I really can't see what it matters. And out there, if I hadn't said Mr.

"And I can assure you, my dears, Bealby won't think any the worse of you for turning him into a gentleman,"

"And Bellvy Castle, pray? what of Bellvy Castle? Has still no groom come riding posthaste to summon

Heartily tired of this jest, which he himself had innocently started, Mahony picked up a book and stuck his

"Come, Lisby," said Mother, "the kettle's boiling its head off. Richard, my dear, draw up your chair; you

must be cold and famished. Nay, Mary, I'll not let you go home. We're going to drink a cosy cup together.

And afterwards Richard shall tell us more adventures of the early days. I've looked forward to it all the

Mahony had more than once said to his wife: "Before I knew your mother, Mary, I used to think you the

warmesthearted creature under the sun. But now that I know her, love, and can draw comparisons, I declare

And then he would fall to musing on the subject of wisdom inborn and acquired. Here was this little old lady,

who knew nothing of the world, had never, indeed, travelled fifty miles from her native place, and yet was

richer in wisdom intuitive wisdom, the wisdom of the heart than any second mortal he had met. He

could not picture to himself the situation, however tangled, that Mary's mother would fail to see through, and,

seeing, to judge soundly and with loving kindness. Yes, his acquaintance with and affection for her was the

THE surgery was a small, darkish room on the ground floor, a step or two below street level; and the window

behind which Mahony spent the greater part of his first English winter was screened from the curiosity of

passersby, by an attorney's brown gauze shade. Across this blind he saw people move like shadows; or like

bodies immersed in water, only the tops of whose crowns shewed above the surface. There went the hooded

tray and crooked arm of the tinkling muffinman; and the wares of the buyabrooms. There, also, to the

deep notes of his bigger bell and his insistent: "To all whom it may concern!" passed the shiny black hat of

the town crier. Regularly, too, at dusk, through fog or silvery rain, the lamplighter's ladder and torch rose

into Mahony's field of vision, flicking alive the little gas flame that set his own brass plates aglitter.

About this surgery hung a disagreeable, penetrating smell a kind of blend of the countless drugs that had

been housed and mixed there for over half a century and, air as you might, it was not to be got rid of. It

gave even Mary, who was not sensitive to smells, the headache. Otherwise, during Richard's absences she

might have used this room, which held a comfortable armchair. As it was, she found herself fairly crowded

out. The passage was so narrow that two people were a tight fit in it; and, were more than two in waiting, they

had to be furnished with seats in the little parlour to the back, pokier, this, than even the surgery, and very

dark Richard called it the "Black Hole" giving as it did on a walledin yard no bigger than a roofless

prison cell. Altogether, the accommodation was so cramped that it was like living in a mousetrap. Still, it

would have been folly in the beginning to separate house from practice, when the two had hung together for

so long. Time enough later on to make changes. Mary's own idea was to turn the firstfloor bedroom into a

drawingroom. Richard talked of moving; of knocking two houses into one; even of building for himself. In

the meantime he had taken the house on a short lease, preferring to pay a higher rent for a few years than to

bind himself for the mystic seven. And so it was mainly in the bedroom that Mary spent her first winter;

sewing, sheerly to kill time, garments she did not need, or which she might just as well have "given out."

Sitting bent over her needle in the half daylight, she could sometimes almost have smiled did she think of the

sacrifices they had made all for this. But for the most part she felt troubled and anxious. Richard had tied

himself down for three years; but not a month had passed before her constant, nagging worry was: how long

Mahony, too, was offended by the atmosphere of his room: though not so much by the drugs, to which his

nose was seasoned, as by the allpervading reek of stale tobacco. This hung about and persisted though a

carpenter speedily prised open the hermetically sealed window and only became bearable when a good

fire burned and the room was thoroughly warm. Cooled off, it had a cold, flat, stagnant smell that turned you

sick. His old forerunner must have kept his pipe going like a furnace; have wadded it, too, with the rankest of

weeds. Even had the practice been shaping satisfactorily this smell might have ended by driving him from the

room; which would also have meant from the house. As things stood, however, it was not worth his while to

think of moving. Before a month was up he suspected what two months showed, and three made plain as the

There he sat, with the last numbers of the medical journals, new books on medicine before him, and was too

unsettled to read, or, if he did, to make sense of what he read. The mischief was not only that the practice

didn't move properly: what came was of entirely the wrong sort. He had not had half a dozen calls to good

houses since starting. The patients who had thus far consulted him were the servantgirls and petty tradesmen

In fits of exasperation, he knew what it was to feel convinced that the entries in the books laid before him at

purchase, the rosy tales of Brocklebank's receipts, had been invented for his decoying. If not, what in the

name of fortune had become of the practice? In calmer moments, he absolved those about him from the

charge of wilful fraud: they had acted according to their lights that was all. That their way of looking at

things was not his, was constantly being brought home to him anew. And how, indeed, could he expect them,

who had passed their whole lives fixed as vegetables on the selfsame spot, to know his touchstone for a

practice? For example, the visit, famous in local history, paid by old Brocklebank to Bellevue Castle. On

closer scrutiny this dwindled into the bandaging of a turned ankle, an ankle belonging to one of the

underservants who had slipped on a greasy cobble while at market. Never had old B. set foot in the Castle:

or, at most little more than a servant himself had entered it but by the back door. Chagrin was not the

only feeling this incident roused in Mahony: he found insufferable the obsequious attitude of mind it spoke to

in those concerned. Long residence in a land where every honest man was the equal of his neighbour had

unfitted him for the genuflexions of the English middleclasses before the footstools of the great. But he had

given up trying to make himself or his views intelligible. For all that those about him understood, he might as

well have been speaking Chinese; while any reference to the position and income he had turned his back on,

called to their eyes a look of doubt, and even disbelief. They considered him a supremely lucky man to have

stepped into old Brocklebank's shoes; and at his door alone would the blame be laid, if he failed to succeed.

And failing he was! So far, he had booked the magnificent sum of slightly over a couple of pounds weekly.

Two pounds! It reminded him of his first struggleandstarve campaign on taking up practice after his

marriage. Only under one condition could he have faced the present situation with equanimity; and that,

paradoxically enough, was, if he had not seen the colour of the money, and it had stood on account to some of

the big houses round about. As it was, it dribbled in, a few shillings here, a few there; which meant that his

spending had also to be done in driblets a habit it was easier to lose than to recapture. Yes! if the handful

of shares he had left invested in the colony were not bringing in what they did, he and Mary would at this

Talking of Mary: her position here was another bite he could not swallow. It had really not been fair of him to

foist this kind of thing on Mary. To begin with, the house possibly the neighbourhood, too, dark, crowded,

airless did not suit her. She looked pale and thin, and had never quite lost the cough she had arrived with.

How could she, indeed, when she sat for hours at a stretch stooped over her needle? She had no society worth

the name never a drive, a party, a bazaar. Her sole diversion was tending her mother; undertaking the

countless odd jobs the old lady and her rheumaticky maidservant had need of. In one way, of course, this was

right and proper; and he did not begrudge her to the mother from whom she had so long been parted. His

grudge was aimed at another quarter. Soon after Christmas Lisby had made good her escape, and was now

established as resident mistress at a Young Ladies' Seminary, near Leeds. Which wormed, in spite of himself.

No complaint crossed Mary's lips; she sacrificed herself as cheerfully as usual. None the less, he owed one of

his chief worries during these weeks to Mary. For he could feel that she did not expect him to hold fast, and

lived in suspense lest he should throw up the sponge. The consciousness of this galled him got on his

nerves. Yet never had he felt so averse from breaking silence. It was not only selfannoyance at the

foolishness he had been guilty of; or anticipation of a resigned, Itoldyouso attitude on Mary's part she

had told him so, of course; but it wouldn't be Mary if, when the crisis came, she twitted him with it. No, what

The result was that Mary, too, grew fidgety: it was so unlike Richard to bottle himself up in this fashion. She

began to be afraid he was afraid of her and of what she might say. So, one evening, as they sat together over

book and needle, she herself broke the ice by asking him pointblank whether he regretted having settled in

Leicester. "For I can see the practice is not doing much in the meantime. Still . . . if you otherwise like the

"Like it? I wish to God I'd never set foot in its hideous redbrick streets! As for the practice not doing much

my dear, it has melted into thin air, and that's all there is to say about it. The great majority of that old

horsedoctor's patients have given me the goby what on earth has become of the wealthy shoemakers,

etc., whose names stood on his books, Heaven alone knows! It can't be that they disapprove of my treatment,

for they've never even tried it. Upon my word, Mary, I sometimes think the whole thing was a fake and a

swindle. But I can tell you this: if I stop here, I'm on the high road to becoming a sixpenny doctor for the

"I should think so! It's really most unfortunate, Richard. But what's to be done?"

"The only course I can see, is to get out of it. I've made a big mistake, my dear, and the shortest and cheapest

way in the end will be to admit it and tot up the balance. I could curse myself now, for not having taken your

advice. Over hasty as always! The only excuse for me is, I honestly believed there was money to be made

"Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk. But since you own you did rush rather blindly into this, be warned

and don't, for goodness sake, do the same thing in getting out of it. Give it a year's trial."

But the bare idea turned him cold. Now, too, that he had had his say, he felt doubly resolute. Aloud, he

declared that another three months spent in these dark quarters, among this stickiest provinciality, in the mud,

wind and rain of this dirty, wet, dismal town, would drive him crazy. "The very smell of the place does for

me. Leather and corn and horses horses and leather and corn! A population of ostlers and grooms and

commercial gentlemen, and cattledealers and bullnecked farmers. No, thank you, my dear, no more of it

for me! Naturally I shall sell at a loss; but the sooner the better, Mary, before the practice falls to pieces

The question of what next brought them to another deadlock. Mary had got it into her head that, if he went

from here, it should only be to London and was dumbfounded by the moody silence into which he fell at

London's very name. "It's society you've missed, Richard. Even had you got on well, you couldn't have

put up with the lack of that. But if you persist in sticking to your original plan and going to live in some

miserable little village, it will be worse than ever. You used to say you felt cut off in Ballarat. But since we've

"Oh, for me it's been different" dear Mary! "living next door to my mother and all that."

"Well, I can tell you this, wife. I've grown more attached to your mother, her kind heart and sound sense, than

"Surely it's time you proved that? What must they be thinking of you?" ("They? Oh? they'll understand. You

forget they're Irish, too, love.") "Well, Richard, my advice is . . . if you're quite determined to move from here

. . . go and pay some visits and travel about a bit, as you ought to have done at first."

Than this, no suggestion could have jumped better with Mahony's mood: his cramped soul longed to stretch

its wings. Spring was at the door, too: that English spring the marvels of which he had seen so often in

imagination and in imagination continued to catch his only glimpse of them, shut up between brick walls

as he was. At Mary's words he had a sudden vision of all the loveliness green downs rolling to the sea,

orchards in blossom, dewy old birdhaunted gardens that he had missed, in flinging himself

huggermugger on the business of moneymaking in this sordid town. And so, overthrowing in his haste his

original plan of waiting till he was in more prosperous circumstances to present himself, he packed his

carpetbag and went off to visit his relatives and renew his acquaintance with his alma mater, putting the

practice up for sale, and leaving a locum to hold together what remained of it. According to the innate

perversity of things, he had no sooner done this than it showed signs of betterment. His substitute was called

in to one of the hosier kings, bespoken by the wife of a wealthy tanner. Mere chance, of course, but it did

The nominal goal of his journey was Dublin; and after that Edinburgh. But when he looked back on the

weeks that followed, he saw them solely in the light of a journey into the past. And now, too, he grasped why

he had so long postponed embarking on it. He was, he discovered, one of those who have a nervous aversion

Alighting from his car at a corner of the square, he stood, bag in hand, and gazed at his old home. It was very

early on a gusty, grey, spring morning; and he himself was cold and unslept. Already, too, the spiritual

depression that is Ireland's first gift to her homing sons was invading him: looking about him he saw only

stagnation and decay. Here now he stood, a worn and elderly wayfarer, over whose head thirty odd years had

passed since, as a boy, he lightheartedly trod this pavement. Thirty years! Yet it might have been yesterday.

For nothing was changed or nothing but himself. And, as he moved towards the house, he had in

selfdefence as it were a moment of vision, in which the long trail of his life swept past the eye of his

mind: his rich, motley life, with all its blanks and prizes, its joys, pains and compensations, let alone the

multitude of other lives with which it had made contact. And to think there had been moments when he

In the bulging glass flowercase outside the groundfloor window, a familiar collection of ferns and green

things pursued their morbid growth. Down in the area stood the empty saucer, placed there full, of a night, for

any thirsty beast that passed. Here was the wellknown dent in the brass knocker; the ugly crack in the stone

coping. As of old, the balcony showed green and mildewed with the water that leaked from a pair of

flowertubs; just as he remembered it, the white carriage step was split asunder a trap for delicate feet.

With this difference, that the mould was thicker, the split wider, the cracks more pronounced.

It was the same with his relatives; they, too, had made giant strides along the road of decay: throats had

sagged, eyes grown smaller, knuckles bonier. Of the three, the older generation had worn best. His mother

carried herself erectly, was slender slender to emaciation and, an inveterate enemy of crinoline, wore

clinging, trailing black garments of a style all her own, she and his sisters moving like lank, heavily draped

maypoles, where other women bulged and billowed and swam. ("Good Lord, what frights!" was his verdict

on this deviation from the norm.) With their ivory faces, long, finely pointed noses, straight Irish eyebrows

and pretty, insincere Irish mouths, the three of them looked like replicas of the one cameo (as did also he,

could he but have seen himself); and since, in age, there was less than a score of years between the trio, the

Thus dispassionately, and Irishly, he viewed them. As they him. "My beloved son, colony life is disastrous. It

ruins the soul . . . as it ruins the body." From the way they looked at him, as this was said, he saw that they

found him unnaturally withered old for his age. Still, his greying temples and wrinkled brows touched

them little. compared with the burning question whether he had come home in time to save this soul of his

alive. For they were even more deeply rapt than of old in the mysteries and ecstasies of religion. On its

conduct they lavished their remaining vitality; while the mother faith, which flourished so abundantly around

them, supplied them with an outlet for the bitter hatred which life's hardships had engendered in them. Popery

was an invention of the ArchFiend; its priests were the "men of sin." To Mahony, who had learnt to

regard all sects and denominations as branches of the one great tree, such an attitude was intolerable.

He stayed with them but for three days; longer he could not have borne the lifeless atmosphere of his old

home. But . . . seventeen years, and for three days! There was, however, another reason. Their poverty was

such that it wrung his heart to have to watch their shifts and makeshifts. In this big house not a single servant

moved; his sisters' thin, elderly hands were hard and seamy with work. The two women rose at daybreak to

clean the steps and polish the knocker. Themselves they washed and ironed the finely darned damask; kept

bright the massive bits of silver, than which there was little else on the oval surface of a dinnertable built to

seat a score of people. They did their scanty shopping in distant neighbourhoods where they were not known,

creeping out with their baskets early in the morning, while others of their class were still between the sheets.

No! the food they set before him stuck in his throat; it was so much taken from them, who looked so

bloodless. Yet, though he grudged himself each mouthful, he did not dare either to refuse what was offered

him, or to add to it by a gift of money or eatables anything that might have shown them he saw how

matters stood. Banknotes slipped, unmentioned, into a letter from far Australia had been a different thing.

These could be politely ignored as indeed they had always remained unacknowledged. He imagined the

fine gesture with which his mother let them flutter through her fingers, in saying airily to Sophy and Lucinda:

"Some nonsense of poor Richard's!" He ventured no more than to buy her a bouquet of cut flowers and a

vellumbound book of devotions. Even hothouse grapes might have exuded a utilitarian flavour. But all he

felt went into his gift; and he knew just the nerve in the proud old heart that would be satisfied by it. For

though he did not warm to them, yet like spoke to like, blood to blood, directly they met again. He could read

their private thoughts, their secret feelings. At a glance he saw through the inventions and excuses, the tricks

and stratagems with which they bolstered up their lives; while yet retaining their dignity as great ladies.

Again, the flashes of mordant humour, which not your godliest Irishman can ever wholly subdue; or the

sudden, caustic, thumbnail sketch of friend or foe: these were so familiar to him as to seem his own: while

the practical Irish habit of stripping things of false sentiment was homely and refreshing. Thus, with regard to

Mary's childlessness, his mother queried briskly: "Has fretted for lack of a family? Nonsense! In such a

climate she was much better without." Again: "Her relatives will miss you. No doubt they placed great faith

in your skill. Besides, your visits cost them nothing." Or her description of a neighbour's state as: "A

Many were the inquiries made after Mary, the regrets expressed at her absence; but he in his heart (as

probably they in theirs) felt relieved that she had not accompanied him. For Mary would certainly have put

her foot in it. There would have been no keeping out of her face the pity she burned with; she would have

made presents where presents were an injury; have torn down veils that were sacred, even between the

women themselves; would, in short, have come hopelessly to grief amid the shoals and quicksands through

which it was necessary to steer a course. Whereas to him the task was second nature. He took leave of them

without regret. Once away, however, he was conscious of a feeling of something like guilt towards them. For

he understood now, only too plainly, what the withdrawal of the ninety to a hundred pounds yearly, which in

his later, palmy days he had been able to allow themwhat the abrupt stoppage of this sum must have meant

to them. It had no doubt made all the difference between comparative ease and their present dire poverty. Yet

never by so much as a word had they hinted at this. There was surely something great about them, too for

Did this experience give him the sensation of a dream in which he, who was alive, went down among those

who had ceased to live, his return to Edinburgh and its wellknown scenes had exactly the opposite effect:

made him feel like a shade permitted to revisit the haunts of men. For here was life in all its pristine vigour,

life bubbling hot from the source and aeons divided him from it. Here he found again his own youth

eager, restless, passionatethough encased now in other forms. Other keen young spirits swept from hospital

to theatre, and from theatre to lectureroom, as he once had done; and were filled to the brim, they, too, with

high purpose and ambition. Never before had it been made so clear to him of what small worth was the

individual: of what little account the human moulds in which this lifeenergy was cast. Momentous alone

was the presence of the great Breath: the eternal motor impulse. Each young soul had its hour, followed a

starry trail, dreamed a kingship; then passed vanishing in the ranks of the mediocre, the disillusioned, the

conquered to make room for the new company of aspirants thronging on behind. Many of these lads

would, no doubt, in looking back, find as little in their lives to feel proud of as he found in his: nothing

accomplished of all they now so surely anticipated. And one or other of them might also, when his time

came, hover as an elderly ghost, eyed with a flagrant curiosity by this insolently young throng how

contemptuously would not he himself in old days have stared at the apparition! hover round the precincts,

the real old middleaged hack, returned for a glimpse at the scenes of his youth. Such were his feelings,

The result was, he fell into an elegiac mood; and not having Mary at his elbow to nudge his attention to

realities, he let day after day slip by without calling on, or otherwise making himself known to distinguished

members of the profession. He shirked the necessary explanations. The one attempt he did make turned out

poorly. Spelt, too, a good dose of patronage for this untrumpeted doctor from the backwoods.

To Mary he wrote: "I do not see much advancement in physick." But this was in selfexcuse. Of a truth new

ideas were in the air. The shining lights of his own day, now but a pair of crabbed old invalids, waited each

for his mortal release. The man of the hour or so rumour had it was a young surgeon in Glasgow;

which "Godforsaken" city British and foreign physicians were actually travelling to and settling in, to see

demonstrated a new means for hindering germputrefaction. At first he himself inclined to side with his old

chief, who turned a cold shoulder on young Lister and his experimenting. But after reading up the subject in

the Medical Library he changed his mind. Pasteur's theory of the existence of certain spores in the

atmosphere might not yet be proved to every one's satisfaction; but the examples published by this Dr. Lister,

illustrating the successful employment of the new method, could not but make a deep impression. In the end,

he would for two pins have taken rail himself to Glasgow, where in even the most insanitary hospital wards

It was while he still lingered, ruminating these things, that he saw advertised for sale a practice on the south

coast of England, in a locality which was described as lovely, sheltered, salubrious. Something in the wording

of the paragraph took his fancy and he wrote for particulars. The reply was so favourable that, instead of

either travelling to Glasgow or going back to Leicester, he set out by way of Bristol for the south. To see the

place was straightway to lose his heart to it; here, for once was a dream come true. The advertiser turned out

to be as young as Brocklebank had been old a practitioner of but a year's standing. But to the hardy old

surgeon as a reed to an oak. For even the soft air of this sheltered nook had not been mild enough for a

congenital throatweakness; and the young man was hieing him to the Cape, where he proposed to settle.

Such was his eagerness to be gone that he came a considerable way to meet Mahony in the matter of price.

And now letters passed and telegrams flew between husband and wife; till, even the electric wire proving

too circumstantial for Richard's impatience, Mary was bidden to pack her bag and join him there. She came,

and was herself charmed with the spot as, indeed, how could she help being, cried Richard, who was as

The chief difficulty was to get a house. Young Philips, as a bachelor, had lived in furnished apartments;

which of course was impossible for them. But it was literally a case of Hobson's choice. For most people

owned their houses had been born and would die in them like their fathers before them and in all the

place only two were vacant. One was of a type that disfigures many a seaside town: a high, gloomy house

in a terrace of three standing right on the pavement of a side street. With no garden of its own, it was

darkened by the foliage of the big trees in the gardens opposite. Still worse, it turned its back on the sea. A

lawyer had lived there; the groundfloor windows bore the hated shades. His widow, planning to move from

the neighbourhood, was willing to let the house on lease. But Mahony took a furious dislike to it; and even

Mary thought it dull, and rather large for the two of them. The second, much smaller and older some

hundred and fifty years, said report was, on the other hand, bright and cheerful, and had a charming

oldworld garden and a magnificent view across the Bay. But it was for sale. Nor was the position it

occupied so suitable as that of the lawyer's: it stood above the town, halfway up a steep hill. Still, distances

were surely negligible, argued Mahony, in so small a place; and whoever really needed a doctor would

None the less the decision cost him his sleep of a night. Mary was all in favour of the one to be rented: his

inclinations leaned to the other. He walked past this a dozen times a day, and went over it so often that the

agent suggested him keeping the keys until he had made up his mind. It was ridiculous, he told himself, to

think of buying a house before he had sampled the practice; yet seldom had he been so torn. And once again

Mary, pitying his distraction, came to the rescue and said, well, after all, perhaps he should just buy and be

done with it. For she saw what would happen if he didn't: he would never cease to bemoan his loss, and to

find fault with the house he was in. Better for his peace of mind that he should take the monetary risk and

though this meant using up the last remainder of their available ready money. But there was also another

unspoken thought at the back of Mary's mind. The knowledge that he had thus involved himself might help

him to sit firm, if and with a person like Richard the contingency had to be allowed for if he afterwards

So he bought; and not for a second had he regretted it any more than he regretted having pitched his tent

in this loveliest of spots. On the contrary he counted himself a remarkably lucky man.

THE practice bore out its reputation. The huckster, the publican and the ostler were in the minority here;

Mahony's visitinglist was studded with good names. This change for the better, together with the pride he

took in his pretty house and garden, sent his spirits up skyhigh. And, as was natural, he read his own

satisfaction into others. "If I'm not much mistaken, Mary, people here are well pleased to have a medical man

of a reasonable age in their midst again." It fell to Mary to keep him gently damped; to prevent him skipping

For if Mahony here felt himself restored to his own level professionally, on the social side which was

important, too things also promised to run smoothly. Of course, English people were notoriously slow to

take you to their hearts; and, even after they had found out all about you, would still go walking round you

looking you up and down. Once, however, these sticklers were sure with whom they had to deal, they made

rich amends. And so Mary had numerous callers of the right kind; and invitations followed the calls. The

vicar's wife took her up a due appearance at church having been made, and a pew hired and she joined

a circle that sat twice a week to sew for the heathen. Further, she was asked to help in visiting and distributing

tracts among the lower orders; in getting up a Penny Reading to raise funds for the promulgation of the

Gospel; to take a table at the annual Sunday School Feast: was, in short, made free of all the artless diversions

In addition to this, the month was April; and the thousand and one beauties of an exceptionally fine spring

unrolled before their eyes. Declared Mahony: to be present at this budding and bursting, this sprouting and

flowering, more than made up for the disappointments he had suffered since landing in England. What a feast

of tender green, of changing colours, was here spread for eyes sore with the harshness and aridity of the

Australian landscape, the eternal greygreen of its skimpy foliage! When he first arrived, every sheltered

slope and sunny bank was yellow with primroses; the lesser celandine bedecked the meadowgrass, violets

were mauve and purple in the hedgerows; and no sooner did these show signs of fading than the ground

became blue with myriads of bells, which, taken in the mass, looked like patches of sky dropped to earth.

And the blue in its turn yielded to the rubypink of the red campion. Against a background of starry

blackthorn blazed the golden gorse. The cliffs were covered with the comical little striped brown pokers of

the horsetails, which soon branched out into bristly brooms; and piercing the rustred carpet of last year's

growth, up sprang the straight nimble spears of the bracken. In the high hedges the ruddy cane of the willows

was smothered by the succulent green tips of hawthorn and bramble; and on the rolling countryside that belle

of trees, the larch, stood out among the copperish buds of the beeches and the first tightly folded leaves of the

But with the onset of summer, when gardeners were busy netting strawberrybeds and currantbushes

against the greedy thrush; and the blackbird, his wooing done, was omitting the topnotes at the end of his

call: by this time, in spite of Mahony's liking for the moderate but sympathetic practice, sly doubts had begun

to invade him whether things were really at bottom as satisfactory as they seemed, or whether both in his

professional and their twofold social life, there was not a fly in the ointment. In his own case, the suspicion

Of the person who bore his name he had naturally heard nothing at the time of buying. Only by degrees did

Robinson come within his ken. A surgeon some years his junior, the fellow had originally, it now turned out,

held the whole practice of the place for miles round in his hands. Then, three years previously, he had

married a rich widow report credited her with eight to ten thousand a year bought a fine property and

retired. Since then again according to rumour he had spent more time than was fitting in the company

of the bottle. However that might be, his former wide professional connection, his wife's money and social

standing, combined to make him persona grata in all the best houses; while among the townspeople and

villagers, slow of wit and opposed to change as only English countrypeople could be, the memory, or rather

the habit of him, had persisted, to the tribulation no doubt of his successors. For there came moments when

Mahony mistrusted the throatweakness alleged by young Philips; or at least wondered whether this was his

sole reason for quitting so promising a place after a bare year's trial. And who had preceded Philips? At first

what he, Mahony, had to meet was no more than a casual mention of Robinson's name. "Mr. Robinson said

this, or would have done that"; and, at the outset, he had been simple enough to believe it a slip of the tongue

for Philips. He soon learned better. A question put, a scrap of gossip retailed by Mary, taught him that

Robinson was still a power in the place. For yet a while, however, he ascribed what was going on to

harddying custom, which might be overcome. The first time he scented actual danger was when one of two

spinsters he was attending complained of her sister's slow progress, and said she would ask Mr. Robinson to

"If you do that, my good woman, you see no more of me!" was Mahony's quick retort. And so he lost a

Thereafter on his rounds he himself began to catch glimpses of the bottlenosed surgeon sitting perched

in a high gig beside a groom in livery; altogether a very smart turnout and this went on until it positively

looked as if the fellow intended taking up practice again . . . filching it back from under his very nose. A

pretty thing that would be to happen, now he had staked his all on it! A shabby trick and no mistake! one,

The mischief was with a brain like his let the door open to one such suspicion, and straightway a

dozen others seized the chance of inserting themselves. He next fell to questioning the apparent ease with

which Mary and he had entered the polite society of the town. For, the longer he lived there, the more plainly

he saw just what a wasps' nest of caste and prejudice they had fallen into. Social life in Buddlecombe was the

most complicated affair under the sun: was divided into innumerable grades; made up of a series of cliques,

rising one above the other and fitting as exactly as a set of Japanese boxes. No such simple matter, and that

was a fact, for a pair of newcomers to find themselves to rights in it. But they in their ignorance had pranced

boldly in, where those who knew better, walked warily and with discretion. The vicar's wife had taken Mary

up: yes; but by now Mahony had come to see that she would be equally attentive to any one who might prove

useful in helping to run the parish, or in slaving for foreign missions. And he began to doubt whether, often

as Mary went to the vicarage, she was invited to the really select parties there given. She had never, for

instance, met the Blakeneys of "The Towers," people he knew to be handinglove with the vicaress. Mary

either did not notice or, noticing, heed such trivial details she just laughed and said: "Rubbish!" or "You are

fanciful, Richard!" but he most emphatically did, and thanked you for being put off with the second best.

And besides her insensitiveness to slights, she was hopelessly obtuse when it came to observing the invisible

but castiron barriers with which the various cliques hedged themselves round, to keep those a step lower in

"Not shake hands with that nice old Mr. Dandy just because he was once in trade? I never heard such a

thing!" In Ballarat Mary had been used to feel flattered did her grocer rich, influential, a trustee of the

church, a member of the Horticultural Society emerge from behind the counter specially to chat with her.

"Indeed and you'll put your foot in it with a vengeance, my dear, if you try anything of that kind here. . .

"Oh well, of course, if you look at it that way.... But all the same . . . when I think . . ." Her sentence tailed off

He understood. "Tempi passati, love! Nowadays, we must do as Rome does. Recollect, too, my dear,

these things may seem trifling enough to you . . . and me. . . who have knocked about the world; but to people

here they're the very A B C of good breeding have been sucked in with their mother's milk. We mustn't let

"I'm afraid I don't; I'm not clever enough. It doesn't seem human either. For we're all the same flesh and

Yes, for the countless niceties and distinctions of social etiquette, Mary had, as she confessed, little aptitude.

The two chief houses in Buddlecombe, the "Hall" and the "Court," were closed when the Mahonys settled

there, the families being respectively abroad and in residence in London. During their absence the temporary

leader, who gave the sign and set the key, and to whom the vicar deferred with his treacliest smile, was the

owner of "Toplands." This was a Mrs. Challoner, a widow with two sons, and a person of great wealth and

importance "Toplands" was really the biggest and most uptodate place in the neighbourhood, both Hall

and Court being cramped by comparison and mouldy with age. But let the Trehernes or the SaxebyCorbetts

show so much as the tips of their noses, and this lady subsided with extraordinary swiftness, collapsed like a

jackinthebox; for, though her husband's antecedents were irreproachable, there was, on her own side,

some shadowy connection with "malt" which could never be forgotten or forgiven her; or at least "only by the

Mrs. Challoner was a member of the vicarage sewingcircle; and here she met Mary, to whom she seemed to

take a liking; for she called, asked her to "Toplands," and, as a special mark of favour, drove her out in her

carriage; Mahony being simultaneously summoned to attend the younger of the two sons, a delicate lad of

seventeen. Thus, when, in Mary's opinion, the time had come to return the various invitations they had

received, by herself sending out cards for a party, she felt justified in including Mrs. Challoner. And, sure

enough, had in reply a graceful note of acceptance. So far good. But now it was that Mary let her hospitable

impulses outride her discretion. At the vicarage she had made a further acquaintance, in the shape of a Mrs.

JohnstonPerkes, a very charming lady who had been settled in Buddlecombe not much longer than they

themselves. And having it from this person's own lips that she came of a good Oxfordshire family, besides

meeting her where she did Mrs. Dandy, for example, was not made free of the sewingclub how was

Mary to guess that the JohnstonPerkes were not "in the swim"? Nor could Richard have helped her. For the

dark fact, unknown to either, was that in his day the husband's father had had some Connection with a

publishing firm; and though Mr. Perkes himself had never soiled his hands thus, yet the business stigma

pray, did not the issuing of books imply the abhorred counter? clung to him and his ladywife and tracked

them from place to place. What followed proved according to Mahony that, though good enough for

God and His works witness the lady's presence at the vicarage! the JohnstonPerkes were not by any

means good enough for the upper crust of Buddlecombe; and the consequence was, Mary's party was a

failure. There was no open contretemps; Mrs. Challoner and her satellites behaved with perfect civility. But it

was impossible, to Mahony's mind, to misread the crippling surprise writ big on these people's faces; and the

Another thing that sent people's eyebrows up was the supper to which Mary sat them down as the clock

struck ten. At this date she had not been long enough in Buddlecombe to know it for an unalterable rule that,

unless the invitation was to dinner, a heavy, stodgy dinner of one solid course after another, from which, if

you happened to be a peckish eater, you rose feeling as though you could never look on food again; except in

this case, the refreshment offered was of the lightest and most genteel: a biscuit; a jug of barleywater for the

gouty, or lemonwater for the young at most, a glass of inferior sherry, cellars not being tapped to any

extent on such occasions. But Mary had gone at her supper in good old style, giving of her best. And Mahony

was so used to leaving such matters entirely to her that it had never entered his head to inferfere. Not until the

party was squeezed into the little diningroom, round a lengthened dinnertable on which jellies twinkled,

cold fowls lay trussed, sandwiches were piled loafhigh not till then and till he saw the amazed glances

flying between the ladies, did he grasp how wrong Mary had gone. A laden suppertable was an innovation:

and who were these newcomers, hailing from God knew where, to attempt to improve on the customs of

Buddlecombe? It was also a trap for the gouty and all were gouty more or less. Thirdly, such profusion

constituted a cutting criticism on the meagre refreshments that were here the rule. He grew stiff with

embarrassment; felt, if possible, even more uncomfortable than did poor Mary, at the refusals and

headshakings that went down one side of the table and up the other. For none broke more than the

customary Abernethy, or crumpled a sandwich. Liverwings and slices of breast, ham patties and

sausagerolls made the round, in vain. Mrs. Challoner gave the cue; and even the vicar, a hearty eater,

followed her lead, the only person to indulge being the worthy gentleman who had caused half the trouble

He felt so sore on Mary's behalf that, by the time he had escorted the last guest through the sentrybox porch,

he was fairly boiling over. Flinging downstairs to the diningroom, where he found his wife disconsolately

regarding her table it looked almost as neat as when she first arranged it he flashed out: "Well, you've

done it now! What in heaven's name possessed you to sit people down to a spread like this?"

Mary had begun to collect her tartlets dozens of them on one large dish, and was too preoccupied to

lend him more than half an ear. To herself she said: "What shall I do with them?"

"Do? Bury 'em, my dear, in a corner of the garden hide 'em away out of sight! I wish you could get the

memory out of people's minds as easily. Our supperparty will be the talk of Buddlecombe for many a day to

"Just because I tried to make it as nice as I knew how? I think you judge every one by yourself, Richard.

"Perhaps they didn't feel hungry. I oughtn't to have had it till an hour later."

"Nothing of the sort! Though you had given it to 'em at five in the morning, they would still have walked

home on empty stomachs. This kind of thing isn't done here, and the sooner you get that into your head the

"Another thing: what in heaven's name induced you to mix those Perkeses up with Mrs. Challoner and her

"I do declare I never seem to do anything right! But you said nothing: you didn't know. For if it comes to that,

"I didn't mean to say anything about it. But it appears the vicar took it very badly, the other Sunday, that you

went to hear that London preacher at the Methodist Chapel. I overheard something that was said at the last

"Well, of all the. . . objects to my going to hear a wellknown preacher, just because he belongs to another

"Yes, if it's anything to do with yourself, it's preposterous. But when it's me, it's mistakes, and faux pas, and

all the rest of it. Sometimes I really feel quite confused. To remember I mustn't shake hands here or even bow

there. That in some quarters I must only say 'Good afternoon,' and not 'How do you do?' and then the

other way round as well. That nice Mrs. Perkes is not the thing and ought to be coldshouldered; and when I

have company I'm not to give them anything to eat. Oh, Richard, it all seems to me such fudge! How

grownup people can spend their lives being so silly, I don't know. Out there, you had to forget what a

person's outside was like I mean his tablemanners and whether he could say his aitches as long as he

got on and was capable . . . or rich. But here it's always: 'Who is he? How far back can he trace his pedigree?'

and nothing else seems to matter a bit. I do believe you might be friends with a swindler or a thief, as long

as his familytree was all right. And the disgrace trade seems to be! Why, looked at this way there wasn't any

one in Ballarat who was fit to know. Just think of Tilly and old Mr. Ocock. Here they would be put down as

the vulgarest of the vulgar. One certainly wouldn't be able even to bow to them! And then remember all they

were to us, and how fond I was of Tilly, and what a splendid character she had. No, this kind of thing goes

against the grain in me. I'm afraid the truth is, I like them vulgar best. And I'm too old, now, to change."

"You too old!" cried Mahony, amazed to hear this, his own dirge, on his wife's lips. "Why, Mary love,"

and from where he sat he held out his hand to her across the table, over the creams and jellies standing like

flowers in their cups. "You but a couple of months over thirty, and far and away the bestlooking woman in

the place! Candidly, my dear, never did I set eyes on such a pack of scarecrows from the vicaress with her

"You don't feel very happy or at home here, love I see that," he went on. "And I sometimes doubt, my

"I certainly liked being there better than here. Still I'm quite ready, as you know, to put up with things. Only

you mustn't scold me, Richard, when I make mistakes I do my best, dear, but . . ."

"We'll lay our heads together, love, and so avoid them. And as a beginning, Mary, we'll stifle the natural

feelings of friendliness and goodwill we have always had for our fellowmortals no matter what their

rank in life. We'll forget that we're all, as you say, the sons of Adam, and are placed on this earthball but for

a very brief period, in which it would certainly be to our advantage to love our neighbours as ourselves. And

we'll learn to be narrow, and bigoted, and snobbish, and mean with our grub . . . eh, Mary? Joking apart, my

dear, you see how it is. We've either got to adapt ourselves to the petty outlook of those about us, or be

regarded as a pair of boors who've brought home with them the manners and habits of the backwoods. And

that means turning out again, love. For I won't stay here to be looked down on . . . when I feel every whit as

"Now when you talk like that, Richard. . . You know I'm willing to put up with any mortal thing, as long as I

can feel sure you're happy and contented. But when I think, dear, of the down you used to have on

"All the same, I felt I could stand no more of the rough diamonds we had to hobnob with out there."

"What we need, you and I, Mary, is a society that would take the best from both sides. The

warmheartedness of our colonial friends, their generosity and hospitality; while we could do without the

promiscuity, the worship of money, the general loudness and want of refinement. You wonder if I shall be

happy here? I like the place, love; it's an ideal spot. I like this solid old house, too: and so far the climate has

suited me. I seem to be getting on fairly well with the people; and though the practice is still nothing

"But? Well, I undoubtedly miss the income I used to have; there's little money to be made compared with

Ballarat, it's the merest niggling. And besides that, there was a certain breadth of view that we'd got used

to, you and I. Here, things sometimes seem atrociously cramped and small. But we must remember good

exists everywhere and in every one, wife, if we only take the trouble to look for it. And since the fates have

pitched us here, here we must stay and work our vein until we've laid the gold bare. We've got each other,

And now they were up and doing, he helping her to stow away her feast that it should not meet Selina's eye in

the morning. And over this there was a good deal of merriment: they had to eat up some of the more

perishable things themselves, which they did to a confession from Mary that she really had not meant to make

quite so much, but had been lured on from one thing to another, by the thought of how nice it would look on

the table. They packed away a decent amount in the larder, for appearance sake; the rest in a cupboard in the

But afterwards, Mary as she took down her hair, Mahony as he went round the house locking up, each

dedicated the matter a further and private refection. She said to herself, astonished: "I do believe Richard is

turning radical," and then went on to muse, a little wryly, that the "fates" to which he so jauntily referred

were, after all, but another name for his own caprices. He, on the other hand, after justifying an omission to

himself with: "No use worrying the poor little soul about that dam fool Robinson!" sent her a thought so

warm that it resembled a caress. For at heart his whole sympathy was with Mary and Mary's ineradicable

generosity. Alone, and his irritation cooled, he ranged himself staunchly on her side, against the stiff,

ENTERING the house late one summer afternoon, his pockets bulged with scraps of weed and wildflower

the country people still gaped at sight of their doctor descended from his trap, a round glass in one eye,

poking and prying in the hedgerows Mahony was turning these specimens out on the hall table when

He went downstairs to her, pulling off his gloves. "What? . . . the mail in already? I calculated it wasn't due

Mary sat in an armchair, her lap full of envelopes, a closely written sheet of foreign note in her hand. Mahony

picked up the several letters bearing his name, and ran his eye over the superscriptions. Their English

postbag was a lean one; but the arrival of the Australian mail more than atoned for it; and the deciphering of

the crossed and recrossed pages, the discussing of news from the old home occupied the pair of them for

days. Among his pile Mahony found a letter from Chinnery of the London Chartered, another from

Archdeacon Long, a third from an old fellowpractitioner; while a bulky envelope promised a full business

statement from the agent whom he had left in charge of his affairs. Taking off his greatcoat he sat down to

First, though, he had to hear from Mary the gist of those she had fleetly skimmed, prior to going back and

"Just fancy, John writes he's been forced to shut up his house and go and live at the Melbourne Club. What a

state of things! That lovely house left to go to rack and ruin. It seems the last housekeeper turned out worst of

all. She didn't set her cap at him, like Mrs. Perry, but he discovered that she was carrying on improperly with

men. To think of a woman like that looking after poor Jinny's children! Now John has put all three to

boardingschool. And Josey still the merest baby. How he expects them to thrive, I don't know with never

a proper home, or a mother's care. Then, here's Trotty . . . or Emma as he will persist in calling her . . .

accused of being idle and flighty. Trotty flighty! If ever there was a dear, goodhearted little soul . . . easy to

manage and open as the day. But John still seems to have his old down on Emma's children. And that brings

me to some bad news. Johnny has run away. Listen to this. And now I pass to the doings of my son and heir.

After keeping the boy to his desk under my own eye for the past twelve months, and endeavouring by precept

and severity to make an honest man of him in vain, Mary, for never a moment's gratification or

satisfaction have I had from him; never a thankyou has he given me for all the money spent on him he

was lazy, deceptive, and frequented loose company . . . Richard! At seventeen! . . . neglected his duties, took

more wine than was good for him, played cards for money, and in the end went so far as to abstract his losses

from my private drawer. Isn't it dreadful? When I taxed him with it, and threatened him with exposure,

he as good as whistled in my face; then actually had the audacity to assert he owed me no gratitude, since I

had never done anything for him; and the next morning he was missing his bed had not been slept in.

When after the lapse of several weeks I contrived to track him, I learned, to my shame and disgrace, that he

had shipped before the mast to that eldorado of thieves and scoundrels, America. Now he may shift for

himself; I wash my hands of him. I have cut him out of my will and shall do the same by Emma, unless she

mends her ways. You will scarcely credit it, my dear Mary, but her schoolmistress writes me that the girl

not yet fifteen years of age, mark you! has had to be 'publicly rebuked' for coquetting with members of the

other sex in a place of worship. Oh, stuff and nonsense, John! Never will I believe such a thing of Trotty. I

know the child a great deal better than you. If I were only there, to find out what it all means He winds up

with the usual: Thank God, Jane's children are of another disposition. I am confident I shall never be

disgraced by them. No, my dear John, they haven't the spirit. But . . . well, I never did!" and Mary let her

hand fall flop on the table. "Just listen to this! A postscript I didn't see it before. He says: Your sister Zara

seems about to make a fool of the first water of herself. She is, I hear for I have seen nothing of her, I am

thankful to say contemplating matrimony. Richard! And he doesn't even say who to. Isn't that like a

man? Can it . . . could it be . . . But there! I believe I saw a letter from Zara herself."

Dropping John's, Mary picked on one of the envelopes in her lap, slit it open and began to fly the lines. "Mm

. . . a tirade against John, of course . . . how those two do bicker! They seem to get worse as they grow older.

Now where can it be? Mm . . . No one can put up with him any longer . . . has had to close his house, thus

"Hullo, my dear, here's news!" cried Mahony and slapped his thigh. He had waited patiently for John's

Jeremiad to end. In Zara's pursuit of matrimony he took no interest whatever. "Well, upon my word! . . . who

would have dreamt of this? Those Australia Felixes . . . you remember, Mary, I bought them rather as a pig in

a poke; and they've done nothing but make calls ever since. Now here they are declaring a threepound

dividend. My highest expectations did not exceed thirty shillings and even that would have been handsome.

Think what it will be when they get in ten more stamps. Fifty pounds a month, for certain! My dear! we shall

"Indeed I hope so," said Mary; and resumed her search for Zara's plum. "It looks as if she's not going to

mention it. This is all about her pupils. They dote on her as usual, and she drives out every day in the

carriage. Zara is certainly lucky in her employers. Oh, here it is tucked away in a postscript. Other and

fairer prospects beckon, my dear Mary, than those of eternally improving the minds of other people's

children. At present I can say no more. But your cleverness will no doubt enable you to divine what I leave

unsaid. And that's all. Now I suppose I must wait another three months to hear who it is and how it happened.

"They've got the money for the chancel at last," threw in Mahony. "I must write and congratulate Long.

Splendid work! They've had the laying ceremony, too, and hope twelve months hence that the Bishop will be

up consecrating. The last Fancy Bazaar did the job. Here's a message to you. Mrs. Long's warm love, and she

missed your help sadly at the refreshmentstall. What? Well, I'm hanged! Old Higgins in my place as

Trustee. Ha, ha! Listen to this. And now an item, doctor, after your own heart. We recently had with us a

disciple and follower of Spurgeon one of the faithful who seceded with the great man from the

Evangelical Alliance. He preached a first time in the Baptist Chapel, but this proved too small to hold a

quarter of those who wished to hear him. And so the second time, on a Sunday evening, he appeared on the

platform of the new Alfred Hall. This was packed to the doors. The consequence was I preached to empty

benches. Well! believing that the Word of God remains the Word of God, no matter under what guise it is

presented, I cut my discourse short, doffed my cassock and went home to bed. The worthy fellow called on

me next day; wished to exchange Bibles his, I am told, deeply underscored but I did not feel justified

"Oh, Polly's lost her baby, poor thing!" cried Mary, whom the doings of Spurgeon's follower interested but

mildly. "I do feel sorry for her. Not but what she takes it very sensibly. And if you think . . . six children and

that teenyweeny house. Still, it's rather sad. She says: Of course nobody misses it or cared anything about it

but me. But it was rather a nice little kid Mary, and well formed. I had it at the breast for a day, and felt its

little fingers, and it had blue eyes. Now fancy that! and the rest of them so dark. Polly would think it

belonged all the more to her, because of it. She says Ned's keeping a little steadier that will be good news

for Mother. He's clerk in a coal merchant's office now, and brings home his wages pretty regularly. Poor old

But a message in Mr. Chinnery's made her smile. Tell Mrs. Mahony how much she is missed in society here.

Those pleasant evenings we used to spend at your house, doctor, and her famous suppers are still talked of,

and will long be remembered. "There, my dear! that's a feather in your cap, and should console you for recent

With this Mahony's budget was exhausted, and he rose to go to the surgery, where he proposed to make a few

calculations in connection with his little windfall. But Mary held him back for yet a moment.

"I declare marrying's in the air. Now here's Jerry gone and got engaged. Who to? He writes: The prettiest girl

in all the world and the best as well. Let us only hope that's true. Dear old Jerry! He deserves a good wife, if

ever anyone did. But, oh dear me! she's only sixteen barely a year older than Trotty. That's too young."

"But I was old for my age. Dear Jerry! He's so sensible in other things. If only he has not let his feelings run

"Poor old Mary wife! If only you were there to look after them all, eh? Better as it is, love. You'd have the

But the letter she spent longest over was the one she kept till the last till Richard had retired to his room.

For only to Tilly did she write nowadays with anything approaching frankness; and in this reply, oddly

written, indifferently spelt, there might be private references to things she had said, besides the plain truth

about all and any it touched on. Afterwards Richard would get, in her own words, all he needed to hear.

My darling Mary, Yours of 19th was a rare old treat. Job brought it when I wasn't at home I'd driven

out to have a look at the mare Zoe, who's in foal and at grass in a paddock of Willy Urquhart's. Didn't I

pounce on it when I found it. I read it through twice without stopping, my dear. And didn't know whether to

be glad or sorry when I'd done. You write cheery enough, Mary, but it doesn't seem to me you can be really

happy in a place like you say Leicester is all damp and dreary, and no garden or space, and so little

company. I'm glad it isn't me that's all. Australy for ever, for this chicken. Your description of the rainy

season makes me get cold shivers down my spine. Give me the sun, thank you, and horses and a garden, and

everything just as jolly as can be. Fine feathers and blue blood aren't in my line anyhow.

Now for my budget. I'm still the gay old widder I was when you heard last, and haven't felt tempted to change

my state. To tell the truth, Mary, though I gad about as usual and don't sit at home and pull a long face, I still

miss dear old Pa. It was so homey to hear him say: "Now then, what's my girl been up to today?" whenever

I came in, and the joy of my life to help him set his will against Monseer H.'s. Well, he can't say he's

forgotten. I've put him up the grandest monument in all the new cemetery. Pa in a sort of nightshirt, Mary,

with wings attached, flying off, and a female figure all bowed up and Weeping on the ground. This is all right

for me, but sometimes I think Pa would rather have been took just sitting on a log and smoking his pipe. But

Henry and the man as done it wouldn't hear of such a thing, said it wouldn't be ideel.

The chief news of this establishment is that Tom and Johnny has moved out. I was for keeping them on

we're none of us chickens any more but Henry pecked and nagged at me about propriety, till I gave in for

sheer peace sake. They're boarded out, poor boys, and Tom comes over every morning to see after the fowls.

One of these days I shall have to put my foot down and squash Henry I see that. For it was the same with

the weeds. Pa used to say: "Wear no weepers for me, Tilda!" meaning veils and hangers and all that

"you've nothing to grieve for, old girl." And I to comfort him: "Right you are, old Jo! If my memory lasts so

long, that is, for you'll beat Methuselah yet!" But when Henry heard of it, he all but stood on his head my

dear, he has Agnes going round with a flounce of cr�pe a yard wide on her skirts. And indeed, Mary, I don't

think I could have faced walking up the aisle of a Sunday without a black bonnet and all complete; though

between ourselves it makes me feel a proper crow. Don't tell, but when I drive out into the bush I stuff a

shady old hat in a basket under the seat, and as soon as I get far enough, I off with the bonnet and on with the

hat. The weepers do draw the flies so. Aye, and flies of another colour too, Mary, if you'll believe me. But

they come to the wrong shop here; none of your longnosed fortunesnufflers for me. And that reminds me

what do you think Henry's latest is? Says I ought to have some one to live with me that it isn't commy

faut for an attractive young widderwoman to live all alone! Ha ha! Do you see any green in this child's eye?

I think I can be trusted, don't you, Mary, to look after myself. But I enjoy keeping Mossieu Henry on the

quake. What he's afraid of is that all I got from poor old Pa won't fall to his and Agnes's kids when I hop the

twig. Talking of Agnes, I don't see Miladi once in a blue moon nowadays. I hear she's "not at all well." It's

my private belief something's wrong there, Mary. They've changed doctors three times, tell your husband,

since he left. Louise Urquhart's presented her husband with the eleventh. How she keeps it up so regular beats

me. But there's ructions in that family at present. Willy's been unusual gay. This time it was a governess, a

real young spark they had up to Yarangobilly to teach the kids. She got bundled out doublequick at the end,

and Willy's looked meek as a suckinglamb ever since. I drop in to see Ned's Polly now and again you've

heard I suppose she lost her last. And a good thing too. She's got more than she can manage as it is. I heard

from her, young Jerry's the newest candidate for the holy estate. They do say the bride elect still plays with

dolls. Lor, Mary! what will these infants be up to next? Another piece of news is that that obstinate old brute

in Melbourne has gone and put all poor Finn's blessed little nippers to boardingschool. That does hit me

hard, Mary. But I get even with him in another way, my dear. I've won over the old vinaigrette here she

needed new globes, etc. for her schoolhouse and we have a kind of agreement, all unbeknownst to the

Honourable, that the kid Trotty can come home with me of a Saturday afternoon instead of spending the day

on the backboard. She's a nice little kid, full of life, though young enough for her age, and I try to give her a

good time. But what she likes best is to make butter, so I pin an apron on her and turn her into the dairy with

Martha, among the milkpans and churns. But let me tell you this, my dear. The Honourable John needn't

indulge any fool ideas about economising in housekeepers when her schooling's over as old Prunes and

Prisms tells me. Some one a great deal younger and handsomer than him will whip her off. She's much too

I think that's all my news. We had great church festifications lately and look forward to more when the

chancel's built. I say, the doctor had some "Australia Felixes," hadn't he? I hear they've struck the reef. But

this is a fearful long scrawl, and yet not half so comfortable as even a quarter of an hour's good yarn would

be. When shall we have that again, Mary darling? I don't lose hopes for someday. And as you know I've

sworn never to cross the water, it must mean the other way about. Yes, I still believe I shall see you back

again: and when you do come, you'll find you are not forgotten by your devoted old crony Tilly.

THE end of September brought day after day of soft, steamy mists, which saturated everything with moisture,

and by night fell as a fine rain that turned lowlying parts of the garden to a bog. Did you mount to the roads

on the high level you were in the clouds themselves; they trailed past you like smoke. There was no horizon

seaward. At a little distance from the shore the grey water became one with a bank of vapour; the yellow

It was exasperating weather. These eternal sea fogs, which never a puff of wind came to chase away, seemed

literally to bury you alive. They brought out the sweat on the flagged floors and passages of the old, old

house; a crop of mould sprang up in the corners of the diningroom; the bread mildewed in the bin. Did the

back door stand open, frogs took advantage of it to hop in and secrete themselves; slugs squeezed through

cracks and left their silvery trail over the carpets. Mary began to fear the house would prove but sorry winter

quarters; and she had ample leisure to indulge such reflections, the bad weather confining her almost wholly

within doors. Here was no kind friend with buggy or shandrydan to rout her out and take her driving; and

ladies did not walk in Buddlecombe: the hilly roads were too steep, the flat roads too muddy. So, once more,

she sat and sewed, faced by the prospect of a long, dull, lonely winter. Calls and invitations had rather

dropped off, of late. . . as was not unnatural . . . and she would have been for seeing nothing peculiar in it, had

she not connected it in some obscure way with Richard and the practice. This had also declined; was failing,

She was unaware that no sooner had the "Court" reopened for the winter than the tale in a garbled version

of the innovations attempted by the "new doctor's wife" had been carried to the ears of its mistress. And

Mrs. Archibald Treherne pinched a pair of very thin lips and further arched already supercilious eyebrows.

That was all; but it was enough. And, in consequence, from the choicest entertainments of the autumn the

Their only personal connection with the big house was due to an unhappy contretemps of the kind that was

On learning of the family's arrival, both he and Mary privately thought an exchange of courtesies would

follow. Hence when one day a footman was found to have handed in cards during Mary's absence his

mistress keeping her seat in her carriage at the foot of the hill the visit did not take them by surprise.

"Richard! . . . a most awkward thing has happened. Those cards were not meant for us at all. It was the

footman's mistake. He ought to have left them at the next house down the road that little thatched cottage

Leaning back in his chair Mahony stared at his wife, while he took in the significance of her words. "And

"What? But will call on this Mrs. Pigott? living in a farmer's thatched cottage?" And Mary not replying,

"Indeed, I don't want to," said Mary, and sitting down untied her bonnetstrings and threw them over her

shoulders. "I don't know when I've felt so uncomfortable. I was ushered into the drawingroom it seemed

crowded with people and there she sat, holding our cards and looking from them to me and back again. I

heard something about 'the new doctor's wife' as I went in. Then she asked to what she owed my visit, said

she hadn't the pleasure and so on all in front of these other people the Brookes of 'Shirley' I think they

were that retired old General . . . you met him once, you know, and thought him very stuckup. I had to

explain how it had happened; I felt my face getting as red as fire. I didn't know whether to walk out again or

what, and she didn't help me didn't get up, or shake hands, or anything. Fortunately a very nice person

a sort of companion, I think asked me to rest a little after my drive, and I thought it would make things

less awkward for everybody if I did so; so I just sat down for a minute and said a word or two, and then

White with anger Mahony shuffled and reshuffled the papers that lay before him on the writingtable.

"We've never been treated like this in our lives before, Mary, and I for one won't put up with it! Damn the

woman and her insolence! Talk about breeding and blue blood give me ordinary decent feelings and a

little kindness, and you can keep the blood, thank you! I snap my fingers at it." In imagination he saw his

Mary, faced by a like predicament, doing her utmost to smooth over the embarrassment of the moment and

And time did not lessen his resentment. Rudeness to Mary such a thing had never before come within the

range of his experience stung him, he found, almost more than rudeness to himself. But was the thrust not

actually aimed at him . . . through her? What had the object of it been but to drive home to him the galling

fact that, on this side of the world, the medical profession carried with it no standing whatever? In the

colonies, along with the Parson and the Police Magistrate, he had helped to constitute the upper ten of a town.

Here the doctor and quite especially the country doctor stood little higher in the social scale than did

the vet. and the barber. Oh, those striped poles! Tradition died so hard in this slowthinking, slowmoving

country. Ingrained in people, not to be eradicated, was a memory of the day when the surgeon had been but

Grimly cogitating, he prepared in advance for further snubs and slights by going about with his chin in the

air, looking to the last degree stiff and unapproachable. For, that Mary's misadventure would remain a secret,

he did not for a moment believe. There were all too many mouths in Buddlecombe agape for gossip it

would be threshed out over every tabby's teatable and those already inclined to look down their noses at

him and Mary would have a fresh excuse for so grimacing. Anything was possible in such a pettyminded,

tittletattling place. Hence, it did not surprise him to hear that Robinson had been called to the "Court." The

trouble was, of course, that the townspeople and lesser folk were faithful in imitation of their betters; and

soon it began to seem to him that he was not occasionally, but everlastingly getting out of Robinson's way.

And as he sat at home over the fire Mary kept fires going to drive the damp out; though, in order to

breathe, you had to leave the windows wide open to mist and fog his thoughts were anything but cheerful.

There was not work enough for two or money either. As it was, he was having to depend more than he

It was at this juncture that the report reached his ears of illness at "Toplands," where the younger son lay

Then came that morning when Mary, grave and worried, broke the news to him that Robinson's gig had been

seen at the gates of "Toplands"; the morning when, unable to hire a horse for his rounds, he was tormented, as

he trudged the country lanes, by the idea that, like the last, this practice also was threatening to peter out.

Late that evening as he sat reading, there came a loud rattatting at the front door. The doctor in him pricked

up his ears at the now unfamiliar sound: it was like an oldtime call to action in the land of cruel accident

and sudden death. The visitor admitted, an excited voice was heard in the passage, and Mary's in reply; after

which Mary herself entered the surgery, shutting the door behind her and looking irresolute and

uncomfortable. The elder of the two Challoner boys had, it seemed, come driving down posthaste from

"Toplands." His brother lay dying. Would Dr. Mahony come back with him the dogcart was at the door

"I told him I couldn't be sure. But, Richard, there's nobody else unless he rides all the way to Brixeter.

And there and back would take him at least four hours. His brother might be dead by then. Their mother is

"Poor thing, indeed! After the way she's treated us. But you haven't a scrap of pride in you."

"Not when it's a case of life or death I haven't. Dear, don't you think you could manage to overlook what's

happened? . . . not stand on etiquette? If the boy should die, you'd reproach yourself bitterly for not having

"You never will understand these things, Mary! and though you live to be a hundred. Little did I dream,"

he said with violence, as he slapped his book to and ungraciously rose to his feet, "when I settled here, that I

Off he drove though, as she had known all along he would; and did not get back till four in the morning.

Then, half a glance was enough to show her that he was in a state of extreme nervous exasperation. So she

asked only a single question: did the lad still live? But Richard could not contain himself; and as he moved

about the bedroom, winding up his watch and letting his collar fly, he burst out: "Nothing on earth will

induce me to stop in this place, Mary, to be insulted as I have been tonight! This is worse a hundred

From under her lashes Mary shot him a swift look he did not see: a look full of motherly tenderness and

yet triumphant. Aloud she merely said: "But think what a feather in your cap it will be, if the boy recovers, . .

"Prestige? Pah! Robinson will say he did the curing, and I stepped in and took the credit. A fat lot of prestige

to be got from that! Mary, there's been a dead set made against me here I've felt it now for some time,

though why, I knew no more than Adam. Tonight I believe I got a clue. It's Australia if you please! the

fact of my having practised in Australia is against me." And at Mary's vigorously expressed disbelief: "Well!

just listen to this, my dear, and judge for yourself. First of all, they prefer Robinson fuddled, to me sober.

Yes, it's the truth. When I get to 'Toplands' I find him tight stupidly tight standing by the bed staring

like an owl. Quite devoid of shame he evidently is not though, for no sooner did he see me than off he bolted

leaving me as much in the dark as ever. I tried to get some information from the womenfolk about the

earlier stages of the complaint; but not one was capable of giving a connected answer . . . . I'd sent the other

young fellow off for leeches and the barber. Young Leonard lay convulsed and insensible. And yet, if you'll

believe me, Robinson had been telling them it was gastric, and plying him with brandy. Inflammation of the

membranes of the brain, Mary! and the fool killing him with stimulants. While I was making mustard

poultices for his feet and legs, back comes Robinson and attempts to feel his pulse. I said: 'Now look here,

my good man, if you don't give me some particulars of this case, I shall proceed to treat it without you.' He

answered not a word. Then I turned to her. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'I'm not going to stand this. Either he or I

must leave the room or indeed the house and, until you decide which, I go downstairs.' She followed,

all but clawing at my coat. He lurches after us, shouting abuse. . . for the whole house to hear. And what,

pray, do you think he said? . . . amongst other scurrilous trash. 'Very well, if you prefer the opinion of this old

quack to mine, take it and abide by the consequences. Australia! We all knows what that means. Ask him

what other trades he's plied there. Make him turn out his credentials.' It was as much as I could do to keep

from knocking him down. Only the thought of the lad upstairs restrained me. She was very humble and

apologetic, of course; besought me to take no notice; almost grovelled to me to save her son, etc. etc. I made

"Besides, you can surely afford to smile at such nonsense, Richard?" Mary strove to soothe him. " It would be

beneath your dignity to notice it. Especially as he wasn't himself." Distressed though she felt at this return for

Richard's kindness, Mary was also unpleasantly worked on by his interlarded "My good man!" and the

general hoitytoity air of his narration. What a peppery fellow he was! How could he ever expect to succeed

"I make allowance for his condition . . . of course I do . . . but all the same it does not incline me, my dear . . .

If such are the tales that are going the round about me, Mary charlatan and quack, a colonial

ne'erdowell trading on a faked diploma and so on; if it's a blot on my reputation to have lived and practised

in the colonies, instead of mouldering my life away in this miserable village then much is explained that

has been dark to me. Anyhow, it came over me with a rush tonight: I go from here. They don't want me; I'm

not good enough for them a man who has held a firstclass practice in the second city of Victoria not

good enough for the torpid livers of Buddlecombe! Very well, let them get some one else . . . I'm done with

'em. Really, Mary, I sometimes feel so sick and tired of the struggle that I fancy throwing up medicine

altogether. What would you say, love, to taking a small cottage somewhere and living modestly on the little

Now what would he say next? wondered Mary with an inward sigh. But the present was not the moment to

combat such vagaries. Richard was sore and smarting; and in this mood he just tossed off suggestions without

thinking; letting his anger out in them as the hole in the lid of a kettle lets out steam. So she only said: "Let us

first see what happens here. Is there any chance of Lenny Challoner recovering?"

"Frankly, I don't think there is. I give him till the coming midnight. He'll probably die between then and

But this prediction was not fulfilled. The boy weathered the night; and after sixty hours' unconsciousness

Buddlecombe was all atwitter and agog: the affair was discussed over counters by tradesmen and

goodwives; at mahogany dinnertables; in the oaken settles of inns. Every one knew to a T everything that

had happened . . . and a good deal more: were for and against the two doctors in their feud. "'Tis a'anyway

little better'n boo'tchers a hoald t'lot of un," thus Raby, the town crier, summed up the matter to his cronies of

the "Buddlecombe Arms." "Bu'ut if us was ca'alves, 'tis the ha'and us knows as us 'ud ra'ather die by."

Yes, chiefly against him, felt Mahony: and it screwed him stiff as a rod. The majority sided with the

townsman who had lived among them for years; who was rich enough to spend freely in their shops,

subscribe heavily to their charities; besides being an expert in the right admixture of joviality and reserve

Mary fought this idea with all her might. Richard was just reading his own feelings into other people, as

usual. She herself clung to the belief that the sick boy would pull through, now he had held out so long.

Which would be a veritable triumph for Richard. If only he did not spoil things by his uncompromising

behaviour! For he was in a most relentless frame of mind. More than one of Robinson's patients subsequently

sent for him. But he, riding the high horse, declined to touch a single other of the enemy's cases. They should

Meanwhile, of course, he did not spare himself over the patient he had taken in hand. But eventually, in spite

of his care, the boy died, killing Mary's hopes, and enabling Robinson to go about cockahoop, boasting that

And now, as he stalked his way or drove his gig about the hilly roads and narrow streets, Mahony felt himself

"Till Christmas . . . not a day longer! I was never built for this." And as he said it, his thoughts flew back to a

time when the merest hint that his skill was doubted had shaken his roots to their depths. Here, where he had

as yet hardly put out a sucker, the wrench was easier, and at the same time a hundredfold more destructive.

BUT before Christmas came, Mary's hope that things would somehow right themselves burned up anew if

hope that could be called which ran so counter to her own inclinations, and to the possible issue she now

With the onset of November it was the turn of "Buddlecombe Hall" to reopen. And now a wave of new life

seemed to run through the sluggish little town. The SaxebyCorbetts, returning, as it were took possession of

the place; and they had this advantage over the Trehernes a childless couple that they counted a baker's

dozen in family all told. Their arrival was after the fashion of crowned heads. First came dragloads of

servants, male and female, and of varying ages from the silverheaded butler down to young scullery and

laundrymaids after which the windows of the great house were flung up, the chimneys belched smoke,

hammerings and beatings resounded; while various elderly women in the town tied on rusty black and went

off to give obsequious aid. Footmen in livery lounged about the inns; grooms rode swathed horses out to

exercise. The tradespeople wellnigh lost their wits with excitement. One heard of nothing, now, on entering a

"I've never seen anything to equal it!" cried Mahony exasperated. "The way these poor creatures burn to

The list of young people would not be full till the holidays began; but donkey and ponycarts were met with

containing the smaller children, their attendant governesses and nursemaids. The squire himself, a

ruddyfaced man in early middle age, mounted on a fine chestnut, might be observed confabbing with the

farmers; and lastly came his lady, driving herself in a low chaise: a bonyjawed, highnosed woman, whose

skin told of careless exposure to all weathers. Dressed anyhow, too, said Mary, who had once seen her in the

town with an old gardenhat perched on her head, a red flannel spencer thrown over her bodice.

And now, at the sound of wheels, grocer and butcher would prick up their ears and pop from their respective

doors, merely on the off chance of pulling their forelocks, and (as likely as not) receiving in return a snub

from the lady of the "Hall." For in spite of what Mahony called their "piteous desire" to please, she was never

satisfied, and hurled at their heads, in vigorous language, her frank opinion of their wares.

"Now, Johnson, this will not do! That last meat you supplied to the servants hall was tough as my boot. If the

next is no better, I shall come and superintend the slaughtering myself. It's my belief, my man, you don't

And Johnson, doubled in two with relish of her "ladyship's" joke, could be heard right down the street vowing

there should be no further ground for complaint; though a visit from her "ladyship" to his humble

To mark his disapproval of this fawning, and for fear any hint of patronage or condescension might come his

way, Mahony had all his armour on, all his spines out, when he was unexpectedly summoned to the "Hall" to

attend one of the children, sick of a feverish cold. Mary saw him go, with many misgivings; but it actually

seemed as if, for once, his lordly manner went down. By his own account he successfully faced the imperious

dame: "Who, if you please, was for herself pronouncing on the ailment it turns out to be chickenpox

and had nurses and maids dancing like puppets to a string. I soon let her see that kind of thing wouldn't do

with me, Mary. And she took the hint fast enough, changed her tone, and behaved like any other decently

bred woman. I had certainly rather though," he added, "have her for a friend than an enemy."

Oh, if this could only be, thought Mary. It might alter everything. And it was here, with him daily at the

"Hall," where the nursery in a body succumbed to the pox, that her confidence bloomed anew. For in a way

Richard even became a kind of protege of its mistress: she would keep him, after his professional visit was

paid, to chat about the colonies and hear his impressions of England. Even Mary herself received a call, and

though it was one of a somewhat quizzing inspection and Madam was "not at home" when she returned it, yet

Richard was pleased, which was the main thing. He himself was twice bidden to dinner a little informal

dinner, at which only another man or two was present; a state of things that seemed to mark as true the report

Yes, Richard's fortunes seemed at last to have taken a definite turn for the better, when of a sudden the blow

fell which put an end to hopes and fears alike. What was behind it Mary did not know, and never learned. But

one morning at breakfast he blurted out in summary fashion that he had resolved, overnight, to shake the dust

of Buddlecombe off his feet. And before she had recovered from the shock of this announcement, the house

was up for sale, and she hard at work sorting and packing. Coming as it did on top of her renewed

confidence, the decision hit Mary hard. It also gave a further push to her tottering faith in Richard's judgment.

Of course, it was clear something unpleasant had happened at the last dinnerparty. But she could get nothing

out of Richard absolutely nothing except that he was done "for all eternity" with place and people. In

vain she reasoned, argued, pleaded. . . and even lost her temper. He remained obstinately silent, leaving her to

her own conjectures which led nowhere. Leicester? . . . well, compared with this, his bolting from

Leicester had been as easy to understand as A B C an ugly town with no practice worth speaking of, and

the little there was, of the wrong kind. But here where she had thought his first irate "Till Christmas!" was

gradually being overlaid; here she could only put his abrupt determination down to one of his most freakish

Mahony saw her trouble; saw, too, how rudely her trust in him was shaken. But he did not enlighten her

he would rather have cut his tongue out. For what had happened concerned Mary first of all; and though there

was a chance she might have taken it less tragically than he in real "Maryish" fashion yet he felt as

averse to bringing the words over his lips as to letting her see how deeply it had mortified him.

Another informal invitation to dine at the "Hall" had reached him at least, he took it to be such, since

Mary was not included. At the entrance to the great house, however six o'clock of a frosty December

evening he ran into old Barker, a retired AngloIndian, just dismounting from his hired fly; and to his

amazement saw that, this time, Barker had his ladies with him. Becoming involved in their entrance, he was

waiting with the Colonel for wife and daughters to rejoin them, when the old valetudinarian found that he had

left his jujubes in the pocket of his greatcoat. Standing thus alone, close to the halfopen drawingroom door,

Mahony suddenly heard his own name spoken and in the harsh, grating voice of their hostess. "Yes, from

the colonies. I can tell you I was put out, when I came back and found what had happened. I wrote off at once

to that sheep, young Philips, and gave him a sound rating for letting himself be frightened away, after the

trouble I had been to, to get him here." At this a gentler voice murmured a query; to which the answer rang

This it was that stuck in Mahony's throat. And on getting home shortly after midnight he did not go down the

passage to the bedroom, but turned into the surgery, which faced the halldoor. No sound came from Mary;

He did not strike a match: feeling his way to the window, he raised the blind and leaned his forehead on the

glass. The sea lay still and black as ink, under a starlit sky as starlight went here. Presently the moon, now

entered on her last quarter, would come up from behind the diffs and throw a lurid light lurid, because the

light of decay over the cold sea and sleeping town, picking out the line of silvery shingle that edged the

beach, and making the odd old curved breakwater look as though it were built of marble.

He had been at white heat all the evening. Again and again amid the desultory talk, both at the dinnertable

and afterwards in the drawingroom, the rasping voice had rung in his ears: "He is quite presentable!"

while he could imagine, though he had not seen, the impudent shrug that accompanied the stressing of the

pronoun. Thus wantonly did mortals glance at, sum up and dismiss one another. The jar to his pride was a

rude one. For, ingrained in him, and not to be eradicated was the conviction that he was gentleman first,

doctor second: slights might be aimed at his profession, but not at him in person. And yet, in comparison,

the patronising "presentable" affixed to himself left him cold. It was the sneer at Mary that stung him to the

quick. That was something he would never be able either to forget or forgive. Did he contemplate this great

heart, full to the brim of charity, of human kindness; this mine of generous impulse; this swift begetter of

excuse and explanation for everything in others that was not as fair and honest as in himself; did he consider

that, to assist in their need any of these purblind souls who sat so lightly in judgment on her, she would have

stripped the clothing from her back: then he burned with a wrath too deep for words. He did not know one of

them worthy to tie up her shoelace. And yet, such a worm for truth existed in him, so plaguy an instinct to

get to the root of a matter, that even as he burned, he found himself looking Mary up and down, viewing her

from every angle, and with a purely objective eye. He saw her at home, in church, in the company of others;

saw her gestures, her movements, her smile; heard her laughter, the tones of her voice and her way of

speaking: all these, for the first time, as things for themselves, detached from the true, sound core of her. And

as he did so, he was forced to own that, in a way, these people were justified of their criticism: she was

different. But not as they meant it. Her manner had a naturalness, her gestures a spontaneity, which formed

only too happy a contrast to their ruled and measured restraint. Indeed as he studied her, it began to seem to

him that into all Mary did or said there had crept something large and free a dash of the spaciousness

belonging to the country that had become her true home. She needed elbowroom. Her voice was deeper,

fuller, more resonant than theirs; she fixed a straight, simple gaze on people and things; walked with a freer

step, was franker in her speech, readier with her tongue; she stood up to members of the other sex as women

emphatically did not do here, an they did not belong to the class of "Madam of the Hall." No connection

between Mary and the pursedup mouth, the downcast, unroving, unintelligent eye, the hands primly folded

at the waist, the short, sedate steps, of the professing English lady. For that, the net of her experience had

been too widely cast. She had rubbed shoulders with all sorts; had been unable to afford the "lady's" privilege

of shutting an eye to evil or wrongdoing and pretending it did not exist. And if, in the process, she had come

to be a shade too downright in her opinions, too blunt for the makebelieve of antique conventions . . . well,

he thought he might safely leave it to Him who had broken bread with publicans and sinners, to adjudge

Thus he reasoned; but ever and again his mind veered back to the personal thrust. Mary vulgar!.. . Mary, of

whom he had felt so fondly proud, having grown to middle age hearing on all sides that she had not her equal

in those attributes that make a woman blessed. "Out there" he had seen her courted, made much of; none had

approached her in popularity. And from this happy state he had torn her away . . . for what? For the privilege

of being looked down on as not quite a lady . . . had uprooted her from the country she loved best and fitted

best into, to make her a stranger on the face of the earth. So much for Mary. But did he himself feel any more

at home here than she? Not a bit of it! Nor had he been a jot apter at adjusting himself. They stood out, the

pair of them, like overlarge figures on a miniature background. The truth was they had lost the knack of

running in a groove: life, in its passage, had hammered them out into citizens of the world. So that, by now,

an indelible stamp was on them. And, with this as their dower, cured for ever of an excessive insularity, they

had come back to find an England that had not budged by an inch; where people's outlook, habits, opinions

were just what they had always been inelastic, uninspired. Worse, these islanders seemed to preen

themselves on their very rigidity, their narrowmindedness, their ignorance of any life or country but their

own; waving aside with an elegant flutter of the hand, everything of which they themselves had no

cognisance. And into this closed circle he and Mary especially Mary had come blundering, trampling

on prejudice, surrounded by an aura of adventure . . . and unsuccessful adventure at that! Was it indeed any

Well, this ended it. He could not picture himself going on living there with a nervous eye eternally cocked at

Mary to see how she was comporting herself, or how what she did struck the wretched group of snobs he had

been fool enough to dump her down amongst; the while he winced at idiosyncrasies he yet grudged to admit.

No, the wider the distance he could put between himself and Buddlecombe the better he would be pleased.

But where to go? . . . what next? Back to some sordid manufacturing town, with its black mud and slippery

cobblestones, to act as medical adviser to a handful of grooms and servant girls? Or to another village to see

exclusive countryfolk turn up their noses at your wife, and watch the practice in which you had invested

your hardearned hundreds melting away, filched by one whose chief merit was never having been out of

England? Not if he knew it! There now remained only London to consider Mary would no doubt harp

anew on the openings to be found there. But at the mere thought of London he shrank into himself, as he had

shrunk under his first physical impression of it. What he had then suspected he now felt sure of. Great cities

were not for him: he was too old to stand the strain of their wear and tear. And therewith the list of

possibilities on this side of the globe was exhausted. Would he had stayed on the other! Civis Britannicus

sum that knowledge should have been enough for him. Instead of which, burning to prove his citizenship,

he had chased back, with, in his heart, the pentup feelings of his long, long absence. He laughed did he now

recall the exultation with which he had descried the outlines of the English coast. "Out there," he had seen

this old country through the rosered spectacles of youthful memory. Now he knew that the thrill he had

experienced on again beholding it his pleasure in its radiant greenness was the sum total of the

satisfaction he would ever get from it. No sooner ashore and not even Mary had fathomed his passionate

desire to stand well here than he had felt himself outsider and alien. England had no welcome for her

But stay! let him be frank with himself. Had he liked the motherland any better than it liked him? He had not.

Indeed his feelings were a great deal more active than any want of liking. He hated it yes! hate was not

too strong a word and had done, from the first moment of landing. His attempt at transplanting himself

had been a sad and sorry failure. Returning full of honours and repute, he found that the mere fact of his

having lived and practised in Australia cast a slur on his good name. Again, he had come back on what he

believed to be but the threshold of middle age and without being greatly troubled by it; for, "out there,"

men of his own years had kept pace, gone along with him and everywhere had been made to feel himself

well over his prime, if not indeed thanks to Australian pallor and wrinkles an old man: one of those

brokendown adventurers who limp home, at long last, to eke out the remainder of a wasted life.

But what next? what in all the world next? To this question he could find no answer. Nor was he helped

by staring at the sea, or the golden, lemonshaped moon that now came up on its back from behind the dark

mass of the cliffs. The purchase of a third practice was beyond him: if he went from here he went

emptyhanded. Possibly he might get for the house what he had given for it though he had discovered that

it was both damp and in need of repair but this sum would not suffice to set him up anew. No, the outlook

was darker than, a moment before, the night had been; no moon rose for him. And he lay long wakeful,

grappling in a cold sweat with the many small practical details of the break details which it is so easy to

overlook in the taking of sweeping decisions, yet which afterwards rise up like mountains and following

the square of silver that flooded in through the uncurtained window, and slowly moved across the bed on its

passage from wall to wall. With the glimmer of the material dawn, however red behind those cliffs that

had delivered up the moon, great Jupiter hanging like a globe of silver above them there came to him, too,

the dawning of a possible solution. But at the first hint of it he flung restlessly over on his side, unable to bear

its weight. A bolder hand than his was needed, to sweep away the cobwebs of prejudice and nervous aversion

in which he had spun himself. It took Mary to do it; and she did; though not till she had talked herself hoarse

in an attempt to make him see reason, begging him to hold the field and show fight; till her head swam with

listening to his monotonous: "What now? Where can I go?" Then, abruptly determined, she cut the knot by

facing him and answering squarely: "Why, home again!" words which first made Mahony wince, then

snort with contempt. But he had no other suggestion to offer or none but the fatuous one Mary had already

smiled at, that, he having given up practice, they should retire to some tiny cottage, do without domestic help,

see no company, and live on the slender sum that came to them from Australia. "I think we could be very

happy and content, love, living so just you and I." If a soul can be said to laugh, then, in spite of her

trouble, Mary's soul rocked with laughter at this fresh sample of Richard's fantasy. Oh, was there ever such an

unpractical old dreamer? . . . such an inability to see things as they were. No doubt he pictured a show

cottage, wreathed in roses and honeysuckle, where they would pass idyllic days. The slow deathinlife of

such an existence, the reaction of his haughty pride against the social position or want of position that

would be forced upon them, was hidden from him. Perhaps mercifully hidden . . . and Mary sighed.

But she did not falter . . . either at his first disdainful sniff, or, later on, when his eyes came stealing back to

hers; came tamed, all the scorn gone out of them. "Only do not call it home," was his unspoken request. Short

of a miracle that name would never, he believed, cross his lips again. No place could now be "home" to him

as long as he lived. He was once more an outcast and a wanderer; must go back in humiliation to the land that

had eaten up his prime, and there make the best of the years that were left him.

As time wore on, however, and their preparations for departure advanced; as, too, the prospect of a change of

scene hoisted its pirate flag again, this sense of bitterness subsided; the acute ache turned to a dull pain that

was almost a relief. And worked on by this, as by the joy which, for all her anxieties, Mary could not quite

conceal, the relief also imperceptibly changed its character, and grew to be a warm spot in his heart.

And one evening, when the supper dishes had been pushed aside to make room for Mary's desk she was

methodically noting the contents of a tin trunk Mahony in watching her and thinking how the frequent

coughs and colds she had suffered from, since landing in England, had thinned her down, spoke his thought

aloud. "Well, love, whatever happens, you at least will grow fat and well again, and be the healthy woman

"Now don't start to worry about me. I'm all right," said Mary. "It takes time to get used to a strange climate."

She entered a few more items in her clean, pointed writing, then laid her pen down and put her chin on her

hand. "The thing I like to think of, Richard, is how soon I shall be seeing them all again Ned and Jerry and

"Poor little wife! And shall I tell you what I dwell most on? 'Pon my soul, Mary, it's of getting my teeth into a

really sweet apple again instead of a specimen that's red on one side only. I believe England will stick in

"And if I know you, my dear, it's the Abernethy biscuit and thin lemonwater you won't forget. Well, well,

madam! you'll soon be able to pamper your guests once more to your heart's content."

"See? . . . yes. But don't hug the belief you'll be able to influence him in his choice."

"I may not want to. And then there's Johnny to try and find out about, poor boy, and to keep Zara from

making a goose of herself. Oh! now that we're going home, I feel how dreadfully cut off from them all I have

"And they'll every one hail you joyfully, my dear, rest assured of that! . . . be literally foaming with

impatience to make use of you again. I should only like to know how they've got on without you." Mahony

had risen from his chair and was standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. Having meditatively

warmed his coattails for a moment he added: "There's another thing, Polly, I don't mind telling you I look

forward to, and that is seeing a real sunrise and sunset again. On this side of the world . . . well, as often as

not the sun seems just to slip in or out of a bank of clouds. There's none of that sense of a coming miracle . . .

that uplifting effect of space . . . or splendour of colouring. Why, I've still in my memory evenings when half

the field of the sky was one pink flush with a silver star twinkling through or a stretch of unreal green

deepening into yellow or mauve . . . And the idea has come to me that it must have been from glories of

this kind that the old Greek scribe drew his picture of the New Jerusalem.... Yes, I must say, things here

colouring, landscape, horizon have all seemed very dull and cramped . . . like the souls of the people

Again he fell into thought. Then warmed by these confidences, went further. "Mary, love, let me confess it: I

realise what a sad fool I've made of myself over this whole business. My ever leaving Ballarat was a fatal

mistake. If I'd only had the sense to take your advice! I was run down at the end of my tether from

years of overwork. A twelvemonth out of harness would have set me right again: a voyage to this side; fresh

surroundings and associations and no need to stint with the money either, for we should now have been

going back to our old ample income. Instead of having to face another start on as good as nothing . . . eat

humble pie before them all, too. For they will certainly grasp what has happened. No, I can see it now; I

was too old for such a drastic break. One's habits stiffen with one's joints. You've noticed I've been hurt by

people here implying I'm outofdate, oldfashioned good enough for the colonies but not for the

homecountry but, upon my word, Mary, I don't know if there isn't some truth in it. I stopped too long in

the one place, my dear; with the result that I ought to have stopped there altogether. Well, well! . . . there's

only this about it: fiasco though it has proved, it has not hit me as hard as it might have done, considering the

exaggerated expectations I came home with. Which in itself is enough to show me age is rendering me

indifferent. Actually, my dear, I believe much of the sting is taken from what has happened by the sight of

your satisfaction at returning. Never should I have brought you here never! I thought to find myself

among a different set of people altogether. In memory, I confused good breeding with tact and kindliness.

Whereas, now, if it comes to a choice between blue blood and inborn goodness of heart, then what I say is:

give me nature's gentlefolk all the time. There's as little likeness between them as between this eternal

"Richard! Don't forget how you hated the climate there. And how poorly the sun made you feel."

"Nor do I. And in spite of the mizzle, and damp, and want of sun, I've thriven in this country. But one can't

live on climate alone. And when I let my mind dwell on the way I we have been treated here; the

stodgy lack of goodwill . . . animosity even . . . the backbiting and gossip, I tell you this, love: there's but one

person I shall regret when I leave; one only of whom I shall carry away a warm remembrance; and that's, as

you know, your dear old mother. But can you guess why? Upon my word, I believe it's because there's

something in her warmheartedness and generosity, her overflowing hospitality, that reminds me of the

"Well! it's late . . . we must to bed," he went on, after a silence which Mary did not break, there seeming

really nothing left for her to say. "I've no plans, my dear, nor have I at present the spirit to make any. It seems

best at this moment to leave the future in the laps of the gods. I know this much though: I'm cured of

Mary nodded and acquiesced; or at least again said nothing; and she kept to this attitude in the weeks that

followed, when, as was only natural, Richard's mind, far too active and uneasy to rest, began to play round

the plans he might have made, had he not forsworn the habit. These included settling somewhere by the sea;

either near Melbourne or at one of the wateringplaces on the Bay Dromana or Schnapper Point. Mary let

him talk. She herself was persuaded that the only rational thing for him to do was to return to Ballarat. It was

of no use his riding the high horse: feelings of pique and pride must yield to practical considerations. He was

known from one end of Ballarat to the other; and the broken threads could there be picked up more swiftly

and with greater ease than anywhere else. It would, of course, no longer be a case of Webster Street unless

the doctor to whom he had sold the practice had failed, or proved otherwise unsatisfactory. But Richard

would find room somewhere; even if it had to be on the Redan, or at Sebastopol, or out at Buninyong. And

though he could now never hope to occupy the position he had wilfully abandoned oh, the unspeakable

folly of man! never hope to give up general practice for that of consultant or specialist, yet with care

something might still be saved from the wreck of the past. And nursing these schemes, Mary set her lips and

frowned with determination. Never again in the years to come, should he be able to say he repented not

having taken her advice. This time she would set her will through, cost what it might.

THE good ship Florabella, eightyfour days out from Liverpool, made the Australian coast early one spring

morning; and therewith the faint, new, spicy smell of land wafted across the water.

Coming up from below to catch a whiff of it, her passengers blinked dazzled eyes at the gaudy brilliancy of

light and colouring. Here were no frail tints and misty trimmings; everything stood out hard, clear, emphatic.

The water was a crude sapphire; the surf that frothed on the reefs white as milk. As for the sky, Mahony

declared it made him think of a Reckitt's bluebag; while a single strip of pearly cloud to the east looked fixed,

immovable solid as those clouds on which, in old paintings, cherubs perch or lean.

Outside the "Rip" the vessel hove to, to take up the pilot; and every neck was craned to watch his arrival; for

with him would come letters and news the first to reach the travellers since their departure from England.

Mary's lap would hardly hold the envelopes that bore her name. They were carried to her by the grizzled old

Captain himself, who dealt them out, one by one, cracking a joke to each. Mary laughed; but at the same time

felt a touch of embarrassment. For her to receive so large a share of the good things under the very noses,

too, of those unfortunates who got none seemed not in the best of taste. So, the tale told, she retired with

her budget to the cabin; and Mahony, having seen her below, went back to read his own correspondence on

But she had done no more than finish John's note of welcome and break the seal of Tilly's, when a foot came

bounding through the saloon, off which the cabin opened, and there was Richard again Richard with

rumpled hair, eyes alight, red of face, looking for all the world like a rowdy schoolboy. Seizing her by the

hands he pulled her to her feet, and would have twirled her round. But Mary, her letters strewing the floor,

"Mary! Wife! Here's news for us! . . . here's news. A letter from " and he flourished a sheet of paper at

her. "I give you three guesses, love. But nonsense! you couldn't . . . not if you guessed till Doomsday. No

more pinching and scraping for us, Mary! No more underpaid drudgery for me! My fortune's made. I am a

Mary spoke in the lightly damping tone which Mahony was wont to grumble she reserved for him alone. But

"Here you are, madam read for yourself!" and he pushed a crumpled letter into her hand. "It's those

Australia Felixes we have to thank for it. What a glorious piece of luck, Mary, that I should have stuck to

them and gone on paying their wretched calls, when every one else let them lapse in despair. John will be

green with envy. And this is only the beginning, my dear. There's no telling what they'll do when they get the

new plant in old Simmonds says so himself, and he's not given to superlatives as you know. Yes, it's

goodbye to poverty!" and forgetting in his excitement where he was, Mahony flung round to pace the

floor. Baulked by the narrow wall of the cabin, he had just to turn to the rightabout. "It means I can now

pick and choose, Mary put up my plate in Collins Street East hold my head as high as the best."

"Oh, dear, how glad I am! . . . for your sake." The tears sprang to Mary's eyes; she had openly to wipe them

away. "But it's so sudden. I can hardly believe it. Are you sure it's really true?" And now she stroked the page

"You for my sake . . . I for yours! What haven't you had to put up with, my poor love, through being tied to a

rolling old stone like me? But now, I promise you, everything will be different. There's nothing you shall not

have, my Mary nothing will be too good for you. You shall ride in your own carriage keep half a

dozen servants. And when once you are free of worries and troubles you'll grow fat and rosy again, and all

"And perhaps you won't dislike the colony so much . . . and the people . . . if you can feel independent of

them," said Mary hopefully. Could he have promised her from this day forth a tranquil and contented mind, it

When he had danced out danced was the word that occurred to her to describe the new spring in his step,

which seemed intolerant of the floor had gone to consult the steward about the purchase of a special brand

of champagne, which that worthy was understood to hold in store for an occasion such as this: when Mary sat

down to collect her wits, she indulged in a private reflection which neither then nor later did she share with

Richard. It ran: "Oh, how thankful I am we didn't get the letter till we were safely away from that . . . from

Mahony felt the need of being alone, and sought out a quiet spot to windward where he was likely to be

undisturbed. But news of the turn of his fortunes had run like wildfire through the ship, started by the

steward, to whom in the first flush he had garrulously communicated it. And now came one after another of

his fellowpassengers to wring his hand and wish him joy. It was well meant; he could not but answer in

kind. But then they, too, had changed. From mere nondescripts and undesirables they were metamorphosed

into kindly, hearty folk, generous enough, it seemed, to feel almost as elated at a fellowmortal's good luck as

if it were their own. His hedge of spines went down: he turned frank, affable, easy of approach; though any

remaining standoffishness was like to have been forgiven him, who at a stroke had become one of the

He could see these simple souls thought he took his windfall very coolly. Well! . . . in a way he did. Just for

the moment he had been carried off his feet as indeed who could fail to be, when by a single lucky chance,

one spin of fate's wheel, all that had become his which half a lifetime's toil had failed to give him? Yet

ingrained in him was so lively a relish, so poignant a need for money and the ease of mind money would

bring, that the stilling of the want had something almost natural about it resembled the payment of an

overdue debt. Yes, affluence would fit him like a second skin. The beggardom of early days, the push and

Next came a sense of relief relief unspeakable. Alone by now in his windy corner, he could afford to let

his eyes grow moist; and the finger he passed round inside his collar trembled. From what a nightmare of

black care, a horde of petty anxieties, did the miracle of this day not set him free! To take but a single

instance: the prospect of having to explain away his undignified return to the colony had cost him many a

night's sleep. Now he was the master of circumstance, not its playball. And into the delights of this sensation

he plunged as into a magic water; laved in it, swam, went under; and emerged a new man. The crust of

indifference, the insidious tiredness, the ennui that comes of knowing the end of a thing before you have well

begun it, and knowing it not worth while: all such marks of advancing age fell away. Youthfully he squared

his shoulders; he was ready to live again, and with zest. And under the influence of this revival there stirred

in him, for the first time, a more gracious feeling for the land towards which he was heading. What he had

undergone there in his day, none but himself knew; but, if his sufferings had been great, great, too, was the

atonement now made him. Indeed the bigness of the reward had in it something of the country's own

"And perhaps, after all . . . who knows, who knows! . . . I myself . . . the worm that was in me . . . that

ceaseless hankering for why, happiness, of course . . . the goal of man's every venture . . . the belief in

one's right to it . . . the fixed idea that it must be waiting for one somewhere . . . remains but to go in search of

it. So, it is not conceivable. . . thus made wiser. . . all fear for the future stilled, too how fear lames and

deadens! independent, now . . . beholden to nobody" such were some of the loose tags of thought that

Till one or other touched a secret spring, and straightway he was launched again on those dreams and

schemes with which he believed his last unhappy experience had for ever put him out of conceit. Oh, the

house he would build! . . . the grounds he would lay out . . . the books he would buy . . . and buy . . . till he

had a substantial library of his own. All the rare and pretty things that should be Mary's. The gifts they would

make her dear old mother. The competency that should rescue his own people from their obscure indigence.

The deserving strugglers to whom he would lend a hand. Even individuals he disliked or was fretted by

Zara, Ned, Ned's encumbrances sipped from his overflow. Indeed he actually caught himself thinking of

people poor devils, mostly who had done him a bad turn, and of how he could now requite them.

Over these imaginings the hours flew by hours not divided off each from the next, but fusing to form one

single golden day: of a kind that does not come twice in a lifetime. Meanwhile the vessel was well advanced

up the great Bay, and familiar landmarks began to rise into view. He had sometimes wondered, on the voyage

out, what his feelings would be, when he saw these familiar places again and knew that the pincer of the

"Heads" had snapped behind him. Now, he contemplated them with a vacant eye; did not take up the thread

of a personal relationship. Or once only: at sight of a bare old clump of hills behind Geelong. Then he

impulsively went below to fetch Mary Mary was packing the cabin furniture, sewing up mattresses in the

floorcarpeting, the mirror in the blankets and she, goodnaturedly rising from her knees, for today she

had not the heart to refuse him anything, tied on her bonnet and accompanied him on deck. There, standing

arminarm, they thought and spoke of a certain unforgettable evening, now years deep in the past.

"What greenhorns we were then, love, to be sure! So mercifully ignorant of all the ups and downs in store for

"Yet you seemed to me very old and wise, Richard. I suppose it came of you wearing that horrid beard."

"And what a little sprite you were! so shy and elusive. There was no catching you . . . or getting a word in

"Whom you couldn't tell apart . . . how that did make me laugh!" said Mary To add with a sigh: "Poor Jinny!

But no melancholy tinged the reflection. In his present mood, Mahony accepted life, and the doom life

Hardly a letter received by Mary that morning but had besought them to regard the writer's house as their

own: they had only to make their choice. "Yes, and give umbrage to all the rest. Nonsense, Mary! We'll just

slip off quietly to a hotel. We don't need to consider the expense now, and shall be much freer and more

What a homecoming that was! No sooner had the ship cast anchor than rowingboats began to push off

from the pier; while one that had been lying on its oars made for them with all speed. Mary, standing hatted

and shawled for landing, looked, looked again, rubbed her eyes and exclaimed: "Why, I do declare if it isn't

Tilly! Oh, Richard, what a difference the weeds make!" And sure enough a few minutes later Tilly's head

came bobbing up over the side, and the two women lay in each other's arms half laughing, half crying,

drawing back, first one, then the other, the better to fix her friend. Certainly Tilly had never shown to more

advantage. In old days her hats had been flagrant, her silks oversumptuous, her jewellery too loud. Now, the

neat widow's bonnet with its white frill and black hangings formed a becoming frame for her yellowbrown

hair, tanned skin and strong white teeth; the chains, lockets and brooches of twentytwocarat Ballarat gold

had given way to decorous jet; the soft black stuff of the dress moulded and threw up every good point in the

rich, fullbosomed figure. Silently Mary noted and rejoiced. But Tilly, one glance snatched, blurted out:

"Well, I must say England 'asn't done much for you, my dear! In all my days, Mary, never did I see you look

so peaked and pasty. Seasickness? Not it! It's that horrible climate you've 'ad to put up with. I declare your

very letters with their rain, rain, and fog, fog used to gimme the blue devils. Well! you've come back

'ere to the finest climate in the world. We'll 'ave you up to the mark again in a brace o' shakes."

Further she did not get, for here now was John arriving a somewhat greyer and leaner John than they had

left, but advancing upon one, thought Mahony, with the same old air of: I am here; all is well. Having

cordially embraced his sister, John wrung his brotherin law's hand: "It would be false to pretend surprise,

my dear Mahony, at your decision to return to us." On his heels came none other than Jerry and his wife: a

fair, fragile slip of a girl this Australianborn and showing it, in a skin pale as a white flower. Mary put

her arms round the child she was scarcely more and kissed her warmly; while in one breath the little

wife, who was all aflutter and atremble, confided to her how very, very much afraid she had felt of this

meeting, knowing Mary to be dear "Harry's" favourite sister; and how she hoped dear Mary, please, wouldn't

mind her calling him Harry, but she had once had a dog named Jerry, a white dog with a black patch over one

eye; and it seemed so droll, didn't it? to call your husband by the same name as a dog, especially such a

funnylooking dog; although if dear Mary wished it very, very much . . . all this gabbled off like a lesson got

by heart. Mary promptly reassured her: it was her good right to call her husband by whatever name she chose,

so long as he did not mind; and that with a loving glance at Jerry she would guarantee he didn't. Then

she turned to her brother. The same steady old sobersides; but now grown quite the man: broad of shoulder,

richly whiskered, and, as could be seen at a glance, the most devoted of husbands. Did his young wife speak

to some one, he tried to overhear what she was saying; watched the effect of her words on the other; smiled in

advance at her little jokes, to incite the listener to smile, too for all the world after the fashion of a fond

mother playing off her child. And when, spritelike, the girl ran to the other side of the ship, he took the

opportunity before following her to squeeze his sister's hand and murmur: "What do you say to my little

"Dear, dear Jerry! If she's only half as good as she's pretty. . . and I can see she is," said Mary returning the

Meanwhile quite a crowd had collected on the wharf, to which the party was rowed in a boat so laden that, at

moments, the ladies instinctively held their breaths to lighten the load, and the little bride shrank into the

crook of her husband's arm. Here stood Zara fluttering a morsel of cambric: she had feared an attack of mal

de mer, she whispered, did she embark on so choppy a sea. ("We could hardly, I think, love, expect Zara to

consider us worth the halfguinea the boatmen were charging!" was Mahony's postprandial comment.) Here

were Agnes Ocock and Amelia Grindle with sundry of their children, and the old Devines, and Trotty,

advanced to a hairnet, and John's three youngest in charge of their schoolmistress; besides many a lesser

friend and acquaintance who had made light of the journey to the port. Hand after hand was thrust forth with:

"I trust I see you in prime health, ma'am?" "Dear, dearest Mary! How we have missed you!" or: "Thought

you'd never hold it out over there, sir." "Delighted, doctor, I'm sure, to welcome you back to our little

potatopatch!" And those who could not get near enough for more, along with a sprinkling of curious

strangers, enjoyed just forming the fringe of the crowd. It was a pleasant break in the monotony of colonial

life to catch a glimpse of arrivals from overseas; to note the latest fashion in hair and dress; to hear news and

Mary had just stooped to the youngest of the children, marvelling at its growth, when her ear caught an oddly

familiar sound, an uneven, thumping footfall, and turning quickly, whom in all the world should she see but

Purdy, out of breath and red in the face, but otherwise looking just the same as of old, or at least "not very

different" a phrase with which Mary had already covered a marked change in more than one present:

John's singular spareness of rib, Zara's greying front, Agnes's florid cheeks, the wizenedapple aspect of

Amelia Grindle. In Purdy's case it cloaked a shiningthrough of the cranium, did he bare his head; more than

a hint of coming stoutness; a cheap and flashy style of dress. First, though, she shot a lightning glance at

Richard: how would he take this sudden apparition? The look reassured her: he was today uplifted above all

ordinary prejudice. There was just an instant's hesitation, and then he himself stepped forward, both hands

outheld, one to grasp Purdy's right, the other to clap on his shoulder; while his: "Dickybird, my boy! How are

you? . . how are you?" came simultaneously with Purdy's: "Dick, old man, I heard your tub was in. I thought

I'd just trot along and give you a pawshake." And thus the old bond was cemented anew.

Thought Mary: was there any end to the good things with which this day was full?

Drawn to the group, Purdy came in for his share of the welcome. For he had not been back to Ballarat since

his abrupt departure some years previously; and his former friends and acquaintances hailed him with the

lively interest and curiosity peculiar to people who see but few fresh faces, and never forget an old one.

He shook hands all round. When it came to Tilly: "I need hardly introduce you two, I think!" said Mary slyly.

Tilly burst into a roar. "I should say not, indeed! Why, my dear, I can remember 'im when 'e was only so

Purdy capped her fiction. "Is that all? Why, you lisped your first prayer at my knee."

But the children grew peevish; it was time to make a move. At the first breathing of the word hotel, however,

such a chorus of dissent broke out that Mahony's plan had there and then to be let drop. Not a guestchamber,

it seemed, but had been swept and dressed for them John's excepted, John still leading a bachelor life at

the Melbourne Club. Even Jerry and his bride had made ready their tiny weatherboard; and here Jerry put his

lips to Mary's ear to say how inconsolable little Fanny would be if they went elsewhere: she had sat stitching

till past midnight at wonderful bows for bed and windowhangings a performance which, in the young

husband's eyes, far outweighed the fact of their living miles out, at Heidelberg, to which place a coach ran but

at ten of a morning; so that the present night would have to be spent in Melbourne, under the bride's father's

roof. Had Mary been free to please herself, she would have waived all other considerations rather than

disappoint the youthful pair. But Richard! She could hear his amused and sarcastic haha, at the idea of

"camping out" with utter strangers for the pleasure of next morning being "carted off" to Heidelberg.

Meanwhile, on her other side Fanny was whispering: just fancy, Harry hadn't been able to tell her what dear

Mary's complexion was, whether blonde or brunette. She had chosen pink for her bows, because pink suited

most people, and she had clapped her hands on finding she was right; but she thought she would have sunk

through the floor, had she hit on blue. And when Mary laughingly declared that blue was one of her favourite

colours, and that even in yellow or green the trimmings would have been equally appreciated, little Fanny bit

The Devines won the day after a heated discussion in which everybody spoke at once. These good people

had actually a carriageandpair in waiting, that the travellers might be spared the brief railway journey from

port to town; as well as a springcart for the baggage. There was no standing out against Mrs. Devine's

persuasions, seconded as they were by the M.L.C. himself, who from a modest place in the background threw

in, whenever he got the chance: "My 'ouse is entirely at your disposal, sir. We beg you and your good lady

"Indeed and I'll not take no!" declared his wife; and, under a pair of nodding, hearselike plumes, her fat,

rosy face beamed on those about her, after the manner of a big red sun. "'Tis a great hempty barn, that's what

it is, and I've looked to this day to fill it. Why, dearie, so's not to 'ear quite so much of me own footsteps, I've

Thus the Mahonys found themselves rolling townwards in the Devines' wellhung landau, on their knees a

picnicbasket containing port wine and sandwiches with which to refresh and sustain the inner man.

Mahony fell silent as the wheels revolved; a smile played round his lips. He was laughing at himself for

having imagined that it would be necessary to explain away his reappearance in these people's midst. One and

all had followed John's lead in finding his return to Australia Australia facile princeps! the most

At South Yarra they became the occupants of the largest guestchamber in a brandnew mansion, which

counted every comfort and luxury the upholsterers had known how to cram into it, and now only needed

really to be lived in. Its stiff formality reminded Mary, the homemaker, of the specimen rooms set out in a

great furniture warehouse; rooms in which no living creature has yet left a trace. Her fingers itched to break

up the prim rows of chairs ranged against the walls; lightly to disarrange albums; to leave on antimacassars

Mrs. Devine having finally satisfied herself that they had everything they had everything they required ;

down to a plump and wellstudded pincushion on which the pins wrote "Welcome!" for: "I've no faith in

"Whew!" breathed Mahony, and sinking into an armchair he fanned himself with his handkerchief. "Well! I

sincerely hope you're satisfied, Mary. Royalty itself could not ask for a warmer welcome than you have had,

my dear." But he smiled again as he spoke; and the usual edge to his words was wanting.

"You, too," said Mary, who was fighting the lock of a carpetbag. Then she laughed. "As if royalty ever got

hugged, and kissed, and slapped on the back! But indeed, Richard, I shall never, never forget the kindness

"My dear, you shall have as good and better. Rather much oilcloth here for my taste. The grounds, too,

struck me as stiffish, what I saw of them." Rising to take another look through a raised slat of the venetian, he

turned and beckoned his wife. "What do you say to this, Mary?" Peeping over his shoulder she saw their host,

in comfortable corduroys, without his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, trundling a loaded

wheelbarrow. Said Mahony: "Seems to have turned into a very decent sort of fellow indeed, does our good

"Who?. . . Mr. Devine? Yes, hasn't he? I thought it most tactful of him to be quiet in the carriage, when he

Below, on a dinnertable built to accommodate a score, a veritable banquet had been spread. They sat down

to it at six o'clock, a large family party. For on the wharf Mrs. Devine, as winner, had scattered her invitations

broadcast, even insisting on Tilly exchanging her hotel for the secondbest spare room. Zara was there,

together with Jerry and his wife, and John, and Trotty, who hung on one of Aunt Mary's arms as did pretty

Fanny on the other; and the health of the homecomers and the happy change in Mahony's fortunes were

drunk to in bumpers of champagne. By every one but the master of the house; before whose plate stood a jug

of barleywater. In the intervals of signalling to the servants where to put the dishes, and whose glass or plate

stood empty, Mrs. Devine, purply moist with gratification and excitement, drew Mahony's attention to this

"Your doin', doctor . . . all thanks to you. Jake took the pledge that time you know of, and never 'as 'e broke it

since, no matter where 'e is or in 'oos company." She actually laid her pudgy hand on Mahony's and gave it a

"Very creditable . . . very creditable indeed," murmured Mahony, stiff with embarrassment lest his host

But Mrs. Devine had already telegraphed to her husband down the length of the table; and the good man

The ladies withdrawing and Jerry sidling out soon after, the three men pulled their chairs closer; and now

colonial affairs took the place of family gossip and perfunctory inquiries about "home." As fellowmembers

of the Legislative Council, John and Devine had become fast friends. It was also in the wind, it seemed, that

Devine might be called on to form a ministry. Puzzled by the many changes, the new men and new names

that had come up during his absence, Mahony acted chiefly the listener; but the interested listener, for it was

gratifying to find himself once more at the fountainhead. His companions' talk, ranging over a great variety

of topics, harked back yet and again to the great natural catastrophe in the face of which legislation was

powerless the unprecedented drought which, already in its fourth year, was ruining the squatters,

compelling them to part with thousands on thousands of dying sheep, for the price of the skins alone.

In listening Mahony eyed the two men up and down. His bearded host looked sound as a bell. But it was

otherwise with John "He's a shocking bad colour," and knowing his brotherinlaw to be of temperate

It grew late: for over an hour John's horses had pawed the gravel of the drive. Finally Mahony excused

himself on grounds of fatigue and ran upstairs. But he might have saved his haste. For Mary had taken her

hairbrush and gone to Tilly's room. There, a fresh log having been thrown on the whitewashed hearth, the two

MAHONY'S first lightning plan of putting up his plate at the top of Collins Street, among the bigwigs of the

profession, was not carried out. For when, the day after landing, he went to interview Simmonds, his man of

business, he found his affairs in even more brilliant condition than Simmonds' letter written a fortnight

back to await the ship's arrival had led him to believe. That had put the sum lying to his credit at between

ten and eleven thousand pounds. By now, however a second company in which he was interested

choosing the selfsame moment to look up combined dividends were flowing in at the rate of twelve to

fifteen hundred pounds a month. And this, despite the enormous outlay incurred by the Australia Felix

Company in sinking a fourth shaft, lighting the mine throughout with gas, erecting the heaviest plant yet seen

In the conveyance that left Collins Street at midday for South Yarra, Mahony sat feeling mildly stunned by

the extent of his good fortune, as by Simmonds' confident prediction of still grander things to come; sat with

faraway eyes, absently noting the velvety black shadows that accompanied vehicles and pedestrians up and

down the glaring whiteness of the great street. He had already drawn attention to himself by smiling broadly

at thought of the news he was taking home to Mary. Now, as a fresh idea struck him, he uttered a smothered

exclamation and tried to slap his knee a gesture that entangled him with a stout party whose crinoline

overflowed him, and gave a pimply faced youth sitting opposite a chance to exercise his wit.

The vehicle a kind of roofless omnibus started with a lunge that sent the two rows of passengers

toppling like ninepins one against another. Mahony alone raised his voice in apology: he had lain on the

shoulder of the fat woman. The man on her farther side angrily bade her take her danged feathers out of his

eye. The greater number recovered their balance by thrusting forth an elbow and lodging it firmly in a

Even in his present holiday mood this promiscuity was too much for Mahony. He regretted not having

accepted Devine's offer of a buggy; and halfway to his destination dismounted, and covered the rest of the

This was better. In the outlying district where he found himself, no traffic moved. Roads and paths were

sandy and grassedged. The scattered houses lay far back in their gardens, screened by rows of Scotch firs.

He met no one, could think in peace; and over a knotty point he stopped short and dug with his stick in the

The brilliant idea that had flashed through his mind in the omnibus was: why go back into harness at all?

Retire! . . retire and live on his dividends . . . here was the solution. From now on be free to devote himself to

He threshed the scheme out as he went, and was plainspoken with himself. I am now a middleaged man:

fortythree and a quarter to be exact in point of time, but a good ten years older with regard to bodily health .

. . and disillusionment: considerably more than halfway, that is, on my journey to the green sod. And what

have I so far had of life? It has been but one long grind: firstly to keep my head above water, and then, to live

up to my neighbours; while every attempt to free myself has failed, the last great wildgoose chase most

completely of any. Yes, the real trouble has always been want of money of money and time or of

money enough to have time. Now that the one has fallen to me, should I not be a fool beyond compare if I

failed to master the other? Think of all the wonders of this world I shall die without knowing the books I

shall not have read, the scientific discoveries, the intellectual achievements I shall never have heard of. Oh!

the joy of devoting one's remaining years to a congenial occupation. One cannot love one's work, the handle

one grinds by the notion that such a thing is possible belongs to a man's green and salad days. Though

perhaps if one climbed to the top of the tree. . . . . But for the majority of us, the fact that we labour to earn

our bread by a certain handiwork wears all liking for it threadbare. It becomes a habit like the meals one

eats . . . the clothes one puts on of a morning. Ambitions to be sacrificed? But are there? I had them once;

in plenty. Where are they now? Blown into thin air spent like smoke. The fag of living was too much for

them. And so, in following my bent, I should sacrifice nothing or nothing but the possibility of fresh

humiliations . . . and much unnecessary pother . . . an infinitude of business . . . .

Thus he reasoned, thus justified himself to himself, arriving at the house with his arguments marshalled ready

to be laid before Mary. The walk, however, had taken longer than he expected; the afternoon was now far

advanced and he footsore and hungry. But though he could hear the servants chattering in the kitchen, none

came to offer him so much as a cup of tea. They would of course suppose him to have lunched; or else

Madam D. had the keys of the larder in her petticoat pocket. The big house yawned inhospitably still and

empty but for a commonlooking child in coppertoed boots and oilcloth apron, which he unexpectedly

ran across: it fled from him like a startled cat. Mary was out driving with her hostess and did not get back till

close on dinnertime. There was another party that night; they sat down fifteen to table and went to bed only

in the small hours. He could do no more than skim the cream off his interview for her benefit, before retiring.

Ten o'clock had struck, but Mary was still in bedgown and slippers, her hair tied in its nightly bunch of half a

dozen little plaits on the crown of her head. This state of undress did not, however, imply that she had newly

risen as a matter of fact she had been up and doing for a couple of hours. But it was one of the rules of this

extraordinary house that visitors did not breakfast till after ten; the longer after, the better, but at any moment

past the hour, provided that the servants did not know beforehand what it would be: they must be kept up to

the mark, hover perpetually alert for the ringing of the diningroom bell: and many and scathing were

Richard's comments on the practice of using your guests as the stick with which to belabour your slaves. Mrs.

Devine herself, clad in a voluminous paisley gown, her nightcap bound under her chin, was early astir: she

gave her husband, who rose at dawn to work among his flowers as he had once worked among his market

produce breakfast at eight, before he left for town. But if you belonged to the elite, were truly bon ton,

you did not descend till the morning was half over, and even then must appear "stifling elegant yawns, which

show the effort it has been to tear your highborn limbs from the feathers!" so ran another of Richard's

glosses. The first morning he and Mary had blundered in this respect; on the second they were wiser; and

now loitered chilly and hungry abovestairs. Chafing at the absurdity and fretting for his breakfast, Mahony

grumbled: "Was there ever such a fudge? As if the woman didn't know I used to have to be up at daybreak, if

Mary, who had been writing letters and sewing, began to dress her hair. "Do try not to fuss so, dear. After all,

it's only a little thing. It pleases her to imagine she's up in the ways of good society. Besides, every house has

"Then give me my own, thank you. But what absurd nonsense you do talk, Mary! I'm sure, when you had

'em, you never tyrannised over guests in this stark fashion. You were their drudge, my dear; danced to their

tune. But I believe you'd sacrifice the last scrap of your personal comfort to pander to the foibles of other

"Nonsense!" said Mary stoutly. "But we can't possibly let her see we don't like it."

She had unbound her hair: freed from its plaits, it hung all crinks and angles. Now she set, with long, smooth

Mahony pulled a chair to the window, threw up the sash and leant his elbow on the sill. The morning was

warm and balmy, after a bitterly cold night. By midday the sun would have gained almost summer strength,

gradually to fade through the autumn of the afternoon till, with darkness, you were back in a wintry spring.

The orangeblossom scent of the pittosperums, now everywhere in flower, filled the air. Sunning himself

thus, he fell to informing Mary yet once again what he had made up his mind to; spoke shortly and

impatiently and with decision. For this time at least he knew that his planning involved his wife in no

Practised hand though she was at concealing surprise, and rightly attributing Richard's snappishness to the

want of a good hot cup of coffee, Mary could not help echoing his words, her hairbrush suspended in the air.

"Give up practice altogether?" And, at his emphatic affirmation: "But, Richard, you'd soon get tired of having

"Nothing to do indeed! I, who all my life have longed for a little leisure to follow my own pursuits! Haven't I

told you, Mary, again and again, that if I were to read from sunrise to sundown, for the rest of my days, I

"Oh, dear, don't talk such rubbish. As if you could spend all the rest of your life reading! Why, I've often

heard you say, after sitting with your head in a book for even a few hours running, that it felt like a boiled

"But, good God!. . . I shall have a garden, I suppose?... and a decent horse to ride?"

"Now, Richard, it's no use mincing words: you do tire easily of things much more easily than other

people. And I'm sure you'd tire of idleness as well. After working as you have."

"Oh, go on acting the brake on the coach. I suppose that, too, is a mission in life."

"How you do snap one up! There's this about it, of course, you could go back into practice at any time if you

wanted to." ("Thank you, never again for me!") "You only say that now, Richard. In a couple of years you

may have completely changed your mind. No, it's not a bit of good getting angry. I think it's a step that

requires most careful consideration. Besides you promised, remember, not so very long ago, to be guided

"So I did. But here the case is different entirely different. Not twopenceworth of risk is entailed. I have no

intention of speculating further, as you ought to know if you know anything at all about me and, well

invested, this money that has fallen to us is enough to keep us in comfort to our lives' end."

The long, elaborate breakfast over: they had to eat their way through chops and steaks, eggs and rissoles,

barracouta and garfish, fruit, hot rolls, preserves, tea and coffee: breakfast coped with, Mary waited, dressed

for driving, for the carriage to come round, and for her hostess to cease goading on her several maidservants

and tracking down their misdeeds. Propping her chin in her hand and poking with the tip of her parasol at one

of the fruitandflower baskets enworked in the maroon ground of the Brussels carpet, Mary wrestled with

the problem of their future. Richard's present project called for a readjustment of all her private plans for his

benefit. These had never wavered; remained those she had hatched on the morrow of the Buddlecombe

fiasco; and throughout the voyage she had listened in silence to his fluid plannings and imaginings what he

was going to do next had just listened and let him talk. Ballarat had seen his beginnings; seen his rise to

one of its most popular medical men: it should also, she was resolved, learn to know him as the moneyed

consultant who could afford to see as few patients as he wished. It was ridiculous for him to think of starting

all over again in a strange place, when there, in Ballarat, was his old reputation waiting for him. What was the

point of success either, if it did not come to you among the friends of your less palmy days?

But his intention to retire into private life cut clean through these aspirations. And yet, for the first time, Mary

hesitated. The difference was, what he now proposed made a subtle appeal to her. For, to be nothing, to have

neither trade nor profession, to fold one's hands and live on one's income that was the ne plus ultra of

colonial society, the ideal tirelessly to be striven after. Work brought neither honour nor glory where all too

many had been manual labourers, the work itself of a low or disreputable kind. And the contingency of

Richard ending as the private gentleman, the leisured man of means, had never been wholly absent from

Mary's mind or wouldn't have been, had he not so quixotically cut his career in half.

There was another point, too: was anybody better fitted than he to live as the gentleman? Where so many

floundered like fish out of water, he would be entirely in his element. If only she could have felt surer of him!

But thanks to Buddlecombe she knew that, no matter how fixed he seemed, at the first trifling unpleasantness

a hint, for example, that medically he was on the shelf he would be up and off to prove the contrary;

perhaps again, as on the last occasion, not even condescending to tell her where the trouble lay. Oh dear! it

would be nice to have a husband who saw things sensibly and practically as one did oneself. How the two

of them could then have put their heads together. Instead of her always having to make allowance for

One comfort: there was no more talk on his part of going "home" with his fortune. The old foolish idea that

he would be happier in England had been knocked on the head. At considerable expense, and much worry

and trouble, poor old Richard! Still, if he would buy his experience in this costly fashion.... Here, however,

her musings were cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Devine in shawl and bonnet, and struggling to button a

magenta kid glove across a palm not built for such a covering: it bulged through the opening, creased and

rolled with fat. The good lady was keyed up to a high pitch with domestic disasters a chipped wineglass, a

scrap of flue found under a bed "Liars and deceivers every one, dearie!" But the great red face beamed

with goodwill. No malice was in it; only the delights of the chase; so that the onlooker was reluctantly driven

And her private doubts and scruples notwithstanding, Mary could not but feel pleased and proud, for

Richard's sake, at the stir caused by the announcement that he had no further need to practise medicine.

Congratulations showered on him. Himself, he laughed, in his new, happy fashion. "I declare, so much fuss

they make, I might have discovered the North Pole." And having got him safely away from the tyrannic rules

Mrs. Devine considered essential to his comfort or the comfort of his blue blood and settled in a

furnished house near the Carlton Gardens, Mary prepared to guide him gently and imperceptibly along the

road she thought it for his good he should go. In doing this, however, she found herself up against a stone

wall, in the shape of a hitherto unsuspected trait in Richard: a violent aversion from returning on his traces.

When it dawned on him that she was still hankering after Ballarat, he lost his temper, and vowed with the

utmost vehemence that when he was done with a place he was done, and wild horses shouldn't drag him back

"Good God, Mary! one's dead self would confront one at every turn. Here one did this, there that. You don't

stocktake, my dear, when you're going on living in a place; but a break and even a brief one forces

you to it . . . in murderous fashion. I should thank you for the constant reminder how life is flying, and how

little one has made of it, and what a fool one was in the past, and yet how full of hopes and aspirations."

No, it was to be Melbourne this time. What was more, he had resolved to build his own house. He was sick to

Build? . . . well yes, there was something to be said for it: Mary hastily swallowed her dismay, seeing his

feathers rise in earnest. Build? . . . before he knew anything about a locality? Why, a neighbour's fowls only

needed to cackle or crow too early of a morning, railwaywhistles or churchbells sound too plainly, and all

his peace and pleasure would be gone. She was not going to risk any such contingency as that, thank you!

And having wormed the information out of him that he leaned to the district lying between St. Kilda and

Brighton, she took John into confidence, and John and she laid their heads together to circumvent his

harebrained scheme. A string or two was pulled; and one day, while Richard and she were driving round

looking for a site, they happened, as if by chance, on the very house to suit them. One, too, that was not yet in

the public market. As John had foreseen, Richard lost his heart to it on the spot, and before the week was out

had become its owner. Well! buying offhand was bad enough; but a good deal less risky than building.

Houses in Melbourne were of two types: either spacious, white, twostoreyed buildings almost as broad as

they were long, with balcony and verandah to the front, and needing but to stand in a sandy compound to

advertise their origin; or low, sprawly villas a single storey high, Covering much ground space, and wearing

their circlet of verandah like a shady hat. Mahony's purchase was of this latter kind.

Built some ten years previously, by a wealthy squatter who was now about to become a permanent absentee,

it stood within half an hour's walk of the Brighton beach, on a quiet, sandy road the edges of which were

fringed with grass and capeweed. The grounds, running to between four and five acres, were well stocked and

fully grown; and included kitchen and flowergardens, a couple of croquet lawns and a fairsized orchard.

From the gates, no glimpse of the house could be caught, so thick were the protecting shrubberies, so closely

set the Scotch firs. These grounds turned the scales for Mahony. To get a garden and such a garden!

readymade, instead of having to wait for it to grow. In the house itself the only alteration he planned was a

large study to be thrown out on the orchard side. Otherwise it suited them to a nicety.

WHILE Richard haunted his new property and egged on the workmen, or sat drawing up a list of books for

dispatch to an Edinburgh bookseller, Mary devoted herself to unravelling the knots and tangles into which the

several members of her family had tied themselves. And after for two years having had to deal exclusively

with a difficult, faddy person like Richard, she found this a comparatively simple job. Those to whose aid she

now came saw things from the same angle as herself, and they spoke a common language.

Zara had first innings. Seated in the drawingroom of the Carlton house, Zara poured out her woes, with

much drying of eyes and the old, old recriminations against John. Never, she wept, had she met any one so

hard, so selfcentred. He was also too stingy to lift a finger to help you; and, in her opinion, richly deserved

the misfortunes that had befallen him Emma's untimely death, and the loss of Jinny; the disgrace of

Johnny's flight and Trotty's misdemeanours. Who could wonder at it, if he treated wives and children as he

Oh, John had the influence, could do it easily if he chose. But for that, he was too down on the match. As if

his own second marriage had been anything to boast of! Pray, who was Jinny? A publican's daughter . . . and,

"I'm still utterly in the dark, Zara. Who is it John objects to . . . that you want to marry?"

"Not I want to marry, if you please, Mary!" Zara's tone was acid as a lemon. "It's quite the other way about. If

"Haven't you wits enough to guess, my dear? Who is it that has followed me and pestered yes, pestered!

"My dear, I have not a heart of stone like some people I could mention! I can stand out no longer against

his prayers and persuasions. Year after year, year after year not many women, Mary, can boast of having

inspired such devotion. He worships the very ground I tread and has done ever since those early days. . .

though I was then little more than a child. Of course, I am aware he is not my equal . . ."

"Oh, good gracious, what does that matter if you really care for him? I've no patience with nonsense of that

Mary spoke with a robust heartiness; but her thoughts were elsewhere, and travelled swiftly. In the two years

that had elapsed since last she saw her, Zara had crossed a subtle boundary, and, from being a youngish

person who looked a trifle worn and tired, had turned into an elderly person who looked young for her age:

which made all the difference in the world. For, alas! Zara's features were not of that wellboned type, whose

cameo outlines show up even better in the middle years than under the plump padding of youth. Short,

irregular, piquant, they had depended on freshness and round contours for their charm. Now that the dimples

had run to lines, the cheeks hollowed, the skin sagged, Zara wore the pathetic aspect of a faded child. When

she drooped her fine eyes, it was really sad, to one who loved her, to see how haggard and old she looked.

Poor Zara! All her choice offers and good chances come to nothing. She had dangled them too long; been

over fastidious; and now it was too late. Mary could read this out of what she said: this and more. Even the

posts open to her as finishinggoverness were not, it appeared, what they had once been. Younger women,

competent to teach the new fangled "callisthenics," and dull, dry pieces by "Mosar" instead of the tuneful

morceaux in which Zara excelled, were now getting the plums. It did seem a shame, considering Zara's

talents, and her long experience but so it was. Perhaps she had grown a trifle "scratchy" with the years. Her

elegant sprightliness was certainly deserting her, giving place to a kind of fixed pettishness. And so, having

turned the matter over, Mary soothed her by promising to do all she could to further the marriage. She would

beard John in his den, and urge him to use his influence according to Zara he was on friendly terms with a

prominent member of the Baptist Union to procure for her intended, who was still but an unsalaried

As visiting John at the Melbourne Club was out of the question, Mary took the only slightly less bold step of

calling at the great warehouse in Flinders Lane. And having climbed a dark, steep stair to the first storey, and

passed through various rooms where clerks, perched on high stools, stole curious glances at the apparition of

a silkandvelvetclad lady whispered to be the senior partner's sister: this ordeal behind her, she arrived, a

"Yes, John, quite alone . . . . I hope you won't mind. But I wanted very much to see you." And having

regained breath and composure, Mary lost no time in going straight to the core of Zara's business.

John listened, with a patience he would have shown no one else, his dark eyes, so like Mary's own, yet so

much older in worldly wisdom, turned intently on her. "Objections to her marrying? My dear girl, as far

as I personally am concerned, my sister Zara may wed a navvy if she chooses always provided he has the

means to support her, once the knot is tied. But this Methodyfellow now . . . have you seen him? No? Then

pray do so, without delay. After which, let me hear if you are still of the same mind."

"Your sister Zara," he went on, "admits to having laid by, in the course of her governessing, some five

hundred pounds: knowing her as we do, seven or eight hundred would, I make no doubt, be nearer the mark.

This sum, well invested, will ensure her yearly some eighty or ninety pounds not a princely income, I dare

say, but sufficient for the requirements of an unmarried female. Should she, however, fritter away her savings

on this what'shisname, it would, in the event of his decease, fall to her relatives to support her. Which I for

Mary had refrained from interrupting. Now, nothing daunted, she insisted on John viewing the case from

Zara's standpoint: the very natural desire of an ageing woman for a home and a husband; the dreaded stigma

of oldmaidism; the weariness and monotony of going on teaching other people's children year after year; the

mortification of seeing younger women chosen over your head, and your salary steadily decreasing as you

grew older. And finally, by dint of what she afterwards described to Richard as "this, that, and the other

thing," she got John so far as to promise that if, after seeing the bridegroomelect, she still thought the

marriage should go forward, he would do what lay in his power to procure for Hempel the pastorate in the

This accomplished, Mary drew on her gloves, which she had removed for the sherry and biscuits brought

forth by John from a cupboard, with a "Both dry unfortunately, my dear girl, since I am not often honoured

"It does, Mary. Yes, on that score I have nothing to complain of nothing whatever. As you will have

observed, we have recently made considerable additions to the premises, and young MacDermott has been

definitely taken into partnership. Still, as far as I myself am concerned, I confess there come moments when

in spite of everything I look round me and ask: cui bono? For whom do I build? . . . since there is no one to

John and cui bono! . . . John to talk of being "gone"! Mary's eyes widened and darkened. But she did not let

the opportunity slip. "Look here, John, what I have always been meaning to say: I firmly intend to try and

find out what has become of Johnny and if possible get him home again. It seems dreadful to me that a

boy of that age, and one I was so fond of, too, should just disappear and perhaps never be heard of again. I

feel convinced there was nothing radically wrong; and can't help thinking he'd be ready to come back after

Was it fancy, or did a new expression flit over John's face at her words? a kind of hope look out of his

eyes? If so, it was gone again at once, drowned in the harsh expression he seemed to reserve for poor Emma's

children. "Nay, I have washed my hands of him, Mary. He has publicly disgraced me. And from all I hear, I

At this Mary laughed outright. "Really, John! I'm surprised at you: letting yourself be imposed on by the tales

of some prim old schoolmarm. You wait; I mean to have Trotty down to stay with me; and then I'll very

soon find out the truth about her. Besides, you know you can't wash your hands of your children like this; it's

unnatural. I wish to goodness I could see you comfortably settled in your own house once more, with them all

about you. This is very well, but it isn't home." And Mary's glance swept the leaded windows, the

cobwebbed corners, the white dust on books and papers, the dimness of the office furniture; to end with John

himself. To her eye he had a rather uncaredfor appearance nowadays; looked unbrushed, much less spruce

"Well, well!" John, his elbows on the arms of his chair, lightly met his ten fingers and tipped them, to a shrug

of the shoulders. "Ah! had it pleased the Almighty to make women other than they are yourself excepted,

my dear Mary, always excepted. But that reminds me. I have been intending for some time past to ask you to

drive out and go over the house, and report to me on its condition. The last person I placed in charge proved

Stowing away the key in her petticoat pocket, Mary gladly undertook the commission. And as she jogged

homewards in a wagonette, she felt well satisfied with what she had achieved; and not on Zara's score alone.

"Poor old John! He doesn't know how lonely and uncomfortable he is. Or how, in his heart of hearts, he's

Meanwhile, after considerable shillyshallying, Zara had introduced Hempel afresh, in what proved an

"I declare," said Mary afterwards, "every time I spoke, I seemed to put my foot in it."

To begin with, it was plain at once what John had meant by his: wait till you have seen him! Hempel was

now but the shadow of his former self, shrunken, emaciated, with overbright eyes, and a dry cough that took

him in paroxysms, at the end of which he withdrew a spotted handkerchief from his lips.

Zara looked so annoyed when this happened that Mary tried to seem unobservant. But after one particularly

violent explosion, the words: "Oh, what do you do for it?" escaped her in spite of herself.

"It's nothing in the world but dust," cut in Zara smartly. "I vow Carlton to be the dustiest suburb in all

"I look upon it as a righteous affliction, ma'am," said Hempel loudly and slowly, and as though Zara had not

"Besides he is perfectly well able to control it if he chooses." Zara was so caustic that Mary hurriedly

made a diversion by inviting her upstairs. And curiosity to hear a detailed account of the interview with John

"He looks dreadfully delicate, Zara," said Mary dubiously, when the bedroom door had shut behind them.

"My dear Mary, a change of climate is all that is necessary. We have taken the very best medical advice. I

truly hope Richard will not go putting any farfetched notions into his head." And overriding Mary's delicate

inquiries with a dramatic: "The happiness of my life is at stake!" Zara declined a chair, swept her crinoline

about the room, and having greedily extracted the gist of John's promises, knew no peace till they returned to

Hempel he now wore a short, woolly beard round face and throat had certainly improved in his way of

speaking. Still he did have lapses; and these Zara accentuated and underlined in distressing fashion.

Throughout the visit she sat bolt upright on the extreme edge of her chair, almost prompting the words into

Hempel's mouth; while, at every misplaced or unaccomplished "h," she halfclosed her eyes and drew in her

breath with a semiaudible groan, as if the aspirate were a missile that had struck her. Hempel alone

remained undisturbed by her behaviour. Richard, Mary knew, would be fuming inwardly at such tactlessness;

and her own discomfiture was so acute that she trebled the warmth of her manner towards the unfortunate

"And what are we to call you?" she asked, as Zara rose to go. "Mister sounds too stiff altogether for a

Instantly she saw that, with this wellmeant question, she had made another mistake. Zara turned a dark red,

and flashing a warning glance at Hempel began a hurried babble of adieux. But Hempel was either too dense

"My name, ma'am, is Ebenezer." ("Edgar, Mary, Edgar is what I call him!") "Yes, Miss Turn'am 'ere" and

so saying, Hempel signified Zara, without looking at her, by an odd little outward jerk of the elbow and a

smile that struck even Mary as malicious "Miss Turn'am don't cotton to it, and wants to persuade me to

fancy names. But I say the one as my parents chose for me in the name of the Lord is good enough for me. So

"It's in the Bible, too, isn't it?" threw in Mary, feeling, if she did not see, the silent laughter with which

Richard was shaking. And to herself she thought: "Oh dear, won't he catch it when he gets outside!"

"Ha ha! Serves her right . . . serves her very well right. Mrs. Ebenezer! Why, of course, it comes back to me

now." ("I felt sure it was Edward or I shouldn't have asked," said Mary ruefully. "And now I shan't know

what to call him.") "But I can tell you this, my dear: Zara is about to commit a monstrous folly. The fellow is

far gone in phthisis. If she wants a job as sicknurse, she'll get it and upon my word, Mary, I don't know

that she won't be better employed in seeing the poor chap decently and comfortably into his coffin, than in

grafting her insincerities and affectations on the young. A more lukewarm bridegroom, though, it has seldom

"How hard on her you are! Yes, both you and John. Every woman naturally wants a husband . . . and a good

thing, too, or where would the world be? Besides if she doesn't marry, you men are the first to twit her with

being an old maid. But if she shows any inclination for it, it's considered matter for a joke . . . or not quite

"Hear, hear! Why, love, at this rate we shall soon have you clad in bloomers and spouting on a platform for

"Richard! Don't speak to me of such horrors. But we're talking about Zara. I must say, after seeing Hempel I

agree with John, it's a ridiculous match. He really doesn't seem to care that much for her . . ."

"Which is but natural. At his stage of the disease a man is entirely occupied with his own health . . . and his

"And I thought Zara most cutting with him. No, I'm afraid she's taking him just to be married."

But, even as she said it, Mary had a glimpse into depths that were closed to her menkind. Just to be married!

It meant that solace of the woman who was getting on in years the plain gold band on the ring finger. It

meant no longer being shut out from the great Society of Matrons; no longer needing to look the other way

were certain subjects alluded to; or pretending not to notice the nods and winks, the silently mouthed words

that went on behind your back. It was all very well when you were young; when your very youth and

innocence made up for it: as you grew older, it turned to a downright mortification like that of going in to

"Besides we can't dictate to Zara as if she were still a child. She has a right to buy her own experience. . .

Another unspoken thought that lurked comfortably at the back of Mary's mind was of the more than liberal

pinmoney Richard was now giving her. He had said expressly, too, she need render no account of how she

spent it. Thus, should the worst happen, she would be able to see to it that neither he nor John had to put hand

A last attempt to bring Zara to reason, however, she made. And having only succeeded in fanning the flames

sisterwise, Zara took interference less well from her than from any one Mary tilted her chin, and

sighing: "Well, we must just make the best of it!" forthwith requested John to do his share.

One thing, though, she did not yield in: she went off by herself to town and bought the stuff for Zara's

weddingdress. For Zara, she could see, was meditating satin and orangeblossoms; and against this all

Mary's common sense rose in arms. "For a place like Wangawatha! And with not even a Bishop to entertain .

. . . I mean, Hempel being a Baptist." So she chose Madras muslin finest Madras, which cost a good deal

"For these you can wear to chur to chapel, Zara, you know, when the hot weather comes." But Zara was

so angry that she forgot to thank Mary for the gift, and tried the texture of the muslin between thumb and

And so a quiet wedding was celebrated at the Carlton house, a ceremony in which the only hitch was a

somewhat lengthy pause for the bridegroom to recover his breath after a fit of coughing; a glass of

champagne was drunk to the health of the newly wedded; and off they went in a shower of rice which Mary

took care was thick enough to satisfy even Zara. Nor was a satin slipper forgotten for the back of the

carriageandpair, all flowers and favours, which Mahony had provided to drive the happy couple to the

The very last thing, upstairs in the bedroom, Mary pressed a small wad of notes into Zara's hand. "A bit of

my wedding present to you, dear Zara. Now don't stint on your honeymoon. Put up at the best hotel and enjoy

"Merci, ma bonne Marie, merci!" said Zara: in the course of the past hour she had gradually taken on the

allures of an elder married woman towards her junior. "But I should have done so in any case."

The rice swept up, the hundred and one boxes of wedding cake dispatched which should intimate to even the

least of Zara's acquaintances that she had quitted the single state, Mary turned to her next job, and drove one

morning to St. Kilda to inspect John's house. She went by herself, for she thought John would thank you to

have other eyes than hers quizzing his neglected home. And she was glad indeed no one else was present

when, the coachman having unlocked the front door and drawn up the blinds for her, she was free to wander

through the deserted rooms. The house had stood empty almost as long as she had been absent from the

colony; and, in such a climate as this, two years spelt ruin. No window or door had fitted tightly enough,

when hot winds and their accompanying duststorms swept the town. The dust crunched gritty underfoot; lay

in a white layer over all tables and polished surfaces; made it impossible to look out of the windows. The

cobwebs that hung from the corners of the ceilings, and festooned the lustred chandeliers, were thick as string

with it. You could hardly see yourself in the mirrors for flyspecks, or see the wax flowers under their

shades. Everywhere, in hundreds, flies and blowflies lay dead. Moths had ravaged each single woollen article

she laid hands on. The beautiful Brussels carpets were eaten into holes, as were also curtains and

bedhangings, tablecovers and the backs of woolworked chairs. It was truly a scene of desolation.

In John's bedroom she chanced to open a leaf of the great triplefronted mahogany wardrobe, to look if any

clothes had been left hanging to share in the general dilapidation; and there, the first thing she lighted on was

a shawl of "poor Jinny's" or what had once been a shawl, for it was now riddled like a colander, and all

but fell to pieces as she touched it. For a moment Mary stood lost to her surroundings. What memories that

shawl called up! Of softest white cashmere, with a handsome floral border, it had been John's present to Jinny

on the birth of their first child: "And if the next's a boy, Jane, I promise you one of richest India silk, my

love!" But, even so, this gift had filled Jinny's cup to the brim. Mary could only remember it tied up with

ribbons in tissue paper, and smelling of camphor to knock you down Jinny had hardly dared to wear it for

fear the dust should discolour it, or the sun fade the bordering. There had been quite a quarrel one day, when

John and she were staying with them in Ballarat, because Jinny had visited the Ococks in her secondbest.

"Far from me be it, Mary, to inculcate an extravagant spirit in Jane, or encourage her to run up bills at the

milliner's. But she is now my wife, and it is her duty to dress accordingly," had been John's way of putting it.

Well, poor Jinny, she might just as well have worn her finery and worn it out . . . as only have had it on her

"It's really a lesson not to hoard one's clothes, but to use and enjoy them while you can. Not to get anything

"John ought to have given all such things away," she aid to herself a few minutes later. For a nudge of

memory had drawn her to a lumberroom, where four zincandwood saratogas were lined up in a row.

These held all that remained to mortal eyes of "poor Emma." For Jinny had once soon after marriage

confessed to a wild fit of jealousy, in which she had packed away every scrap of her predecessor's

belongings. Fifteen years dead! The things were now, no doubt, mere rags and tatters, for the boxlid was

not made that could keep out the moth. Some day she, Mary, must make it her business to run through them,

to see if no little enduring thing was left that could be handed on to Trotty, as a memento of her longdead

"Regular Bluebeard's chambers," was Richard's comment, when she told him of her discoveries.

But Mary had on her thinkingcap, and sat wondering how she could best reduce John's affairs to order. The

house must be opened up without loss of time, scrubbers and cleaners turned in, painters and paperhangers

"I've got the very person for John!" and undoing her bonnetstrings, she threw them back with an air of

"What! . . . yet again?" and having kissed her, Mahony laid his book face downwards and prepared to listen.

For Mary had been out spending a couple of days with the young pair at Heidelberg, to pay her overdue

She had soon discovered, though, that the prevailing neatness and nicety were not the result of any brilliant

housewifely qualities in the little bride. The good genius proved to be an aunt "Auntie Julia" who had

"One of those neat, brisk little women, Richard, who do everything well they put their hands to. Her hair's

grey, but she is not really old. What struck me first was when she said: 'Now please don't imagine I'm a

fixture here, Mrs. Mahony. I just came to help my little Fan over her first troubles in setting up house. I don't

hold with old aunts or mothers either quartering themselves upon the newly wed. Young people should

be left to their own devices. No, poor old Auntie Julia's job is done; she's permanently out of work.'"

It was here Mary thought she saw a light in John's darkness. Taking the bull by the horns, she there and then

told Miss Julia the story of her brother's two marriages, and of his vain attempts to live in peace and harmony

"Poor fellow, poor fellow! Dear Mrs. Mahony, I agree with you: relatives are not the easiest people in the

world to get on with. They are either so much alike that each knows all the time just what the other is

thinking and that is fatal; for, if you won't mind my saying so, the private thoughts we indulge in, even of

our nearest, are not of a fit kind to be made public." ("But with such a merry twinkle in her eye, Richard, that

it took away anything that might have sounded sharp or biting.") "Or else brothers and sisters are so different

Mary next enumerated the long line of housekeepers who had wandered in their day through John's

"Aha! You needn't tell me where the shoe pinched there. I see, I see. Each of 'em in turn thought she was the

one chosen by fate to fill your poor sisterinlaw's place. May I speak frankly? If I take the post, you may

make your mind perfectly easy on that score. I'm not of the marrying sort. Some men are born to be

bachelors; some women, bless 'em, what's known as old maids. I can assure you, my dear Mrs. Mahony, I am

happiest in the single life. Nor have I missed a family of my own, for my little Fan here has been as much

mine as though I had borne her." Here, however, seeing Mary's rather dubious air, she laid a hand on her arm

and added reassuringly: "But don't be afraid, my dear. I do not noise these views abroad. They're just between

"All the same, I should give her a hint that such radical ideas would be fatal to her prospects with his

lordship," said Mahony, who had recently smarted anew under his brotherinlaw's heavyhanded

"She won't talk like that to a man. And I feel sure I'm right; she's the very person."

And so she was. No sooner had John, on Mary's recommendation, made definite arrangements with Miss

Julia than tangles seemed to straighten of themselves. Hers was a master mind. In less than no time the house

was cleaned, renovated, repaired; efficient servants were engaged; John was transferred from his

uncomfortable Club quarters to a comfortable domesticity. And Miss Julia proved herself of an exquisite tact

in running the establishment, in meeting John's wishes, in agreeing with him without yielding a jot of her own

convictions. And thereafter John "He couldn't, of course, let the credit for the changed state of affairs go

out of the family!" John went about singing Mary's praises, and congratulating himself on being the

Next, Jinny's three mites were brought home from boarding school; and together Mary and Miss Julia

stripped them of their "uniforms," undid their meagre little rats'tails, and freed their little bodies from the

stiff corsets in which even the infant Josephine was encased. Three pleasantfaced, merryeyed little girls

emerged, who soon learned to laugh and play again, and filled the dead house with the life it needed. They

There remained only Trotty or Emmy, as she was now called. Mary had confabbed with Miss Julia, and

they had shaken their heads in unison over John's extraordinary attitude towards his first family. But, on

meeting the girl, Miss Julia struck her palms together and cried: "What! stand out against that? . . . my dear,

have no fear! Just let your brother grow used to seeing such a daughter opposite him at breakfast, and he'll

soon miss her if she chances to be absent. Exactly what he needs to preside over his dinnertable. It shall be

In the meantime, however, Mary kept Emmy at her own side, in order to renew acquaintance with one she

As always when forced to live at haphazard, without a fixed routine, Mahony was restless and ill at ease. He

had not even a comfortable room to retire to: his present den was the dull little back parlour of a town house.

Books, too, he came very short in; it did not seem worth while unpacking those he had brought out with him;

and the newly ordered volumes could not be expected to arrive for months to come. Nor did he see much of

Mary: what time she had to spare from her relatives was spent in endless discussions with decorators and

The company of his young niece was thus a real boon to him. Emmy had no obligations, was free to go with

him when and where he chose. What was more, with neither the cares of a family nor of housefurnishing on

her mind, her thoughts never strayed. And a sound friendship sprang up between the oddly matched pair. No

longer afraid of her uncle, Emmy displayed a gentle, saucy, laughing humour. Mahony hired a little horse for

her and they rode out together, she pinned up in Mary's old habit; rode out early of a morning while other

people were still fast asleep. Their destination was invariably the new house, to see what progress had been

made since the day before: holding her habit high, Emmy would run from room to room, exclaiming. Thence

they followed quiet, sandy tracks that led through stretches of heath and gorse to the sea. Or they strolled on

foot, Emmy hanging on her uncle's arm and chattering merrily: a simplehearted, unaffected girl, as natural

as she was pretty, which was saying a good deal, for she promised to be a regular beauty. "Strawberries and

cream" was Mahony's name for her. She had inherited her mother's ripecorn fairness and limpid, lashswept

eyes; but the wildrose complexion of the Englishborn woman had here been damped to palest cream, in

which, as a striking contrast, stood out two lovely lips of a vivid carnationred a daring touch on the part

of nature that already drew men's eyes as she passed. In person, she was soft and round and womanly. But the

broad little hands with their slyly bitten nails were still half a child's. She was childishly unconscious too, of

her attractions, innocent in the use to which she put them; and blushed helplessly did any one remark on her

appearance as the outspoken people who surrounded her were only too apt to do. Without being in the

least clever, she had a bright open mind, and drank in with interest all Mahony could give her: tales of his

travels or of the early days; descriptions of books and plays; little homilies on the wonders of nature. If he

had a fault to find with her, it was that she seemed just as sweetly grateful for, say, "Auntie Julia's" enjoinders

how to hold her crotchetneedle, or hints on dress and deportment, as to him for his deeper lore. Yes, the

child had an artless and inborn desire to please, and dissipated her favours in a manner that belonged very

surely to her age . . . and her sex. For he might say "child," but let him remember that his own little

PollyMary had been but a couple of months older, when he ran her off from among her playmates and

Altogether there was much about John's daughter no! not thus would he put it about Mary's niece, that

reminded him of Mary herself, as a little mouse of a bride long years ago. And not the least striking point of

resemblance was this wholehearted surrender of attention. It would, of course, be unreasonable to expect the

faculty to persist: life in its course brought, to even the fondest of wives, distractions, cares and interests of

her own. But there was no denying it, this lack of preoccupation it was, this freedom even emptiness if

you would of mind, into which oneself poured the contents, that rendered a very young woman so

And when, at length, the move to the new house was made, and Mahony set about unpacking, arranging and

cataloguing the books he had, and planning where those to come should be shelved, Emmy was still his right

hand. Mary, busy with strange servants, with the stocking of kitchen and larder, could do no more than

occasionally look in to see how the two of them were getting on, and keep them supplied with refreshment.

Goodnaturedly she yielded Emmy entirely to Richard, who now passed to overhauling his minerals, plants

and butterflies, all of which had made the journey to England with him and back. And glass cases, stacks of

blottingpaper and sheets of cork were set up afresh in this big, pleasant room, the windows of which looked

down a vista cut through spreading oleanders to where, in the orchard, peach and almondblossom vied in

But it was not very long before Emmy was spirited away to grace her father's table. Then, his own affairs in

order, domestic appointments running smoothly, Mahony drove out with Mary in the neat brougham he had

given her, to return some of the visits that had been paid them. Later on, too, he accompanied her to dinners,

balls and soir�es; or played the host at his own table, which Mary soon filled with guests.

The society in which they here found themselves had a variety and a breadth about it that put it on a very

different footing from either the narrow Ballarat circle of earlier years, or the medieval provincialism into

which they had stumbled overseas. And moments came when, squarely facing the facts, Mahony admitted to

himself he might go farther and fare worse: in other words, that he could now never hope to know anything

better. The most diverse tastes were catered for. There was the ultrafashionable set that revolved round

Government House and the viceregal entertainments; that covered the lawns at Flemington and Caulfield;

drove out in splendid four and sixinhands to champagne picnics at Yan Yean; overflowed the dress circle

at the Theatre Royal, where Bandmann was appearing in his famous roles; the ladies decked for all occasions

lawn, theatre, picnics, dusty streets alike in the flimsiest and costliest of robes. At the head of this

aristocracy of wealth stood those primitive settlers the great squatterkings, owners of sheepruns that

counted up to a hundred thousand acres: men whose incomes were so vast that they hardly knew how to

dispense them, there existing here no art treasures to empty the purse, nor any taste to buy them had they

existed. Neither did travel tempt these old colonists, often of humble origin, whose prime had been spent

buried in the bush; while it had not yet become the fashion to educate sons and daughters "at home." Since,

however, fortunes were still notoriously precarious flood or fire could ruin a man overnight and since,

too, the sense of uncertainty that characterised the early days had bitten too deep ever to be got out of the

blood, "spend while you may" remained the motto men lived by. And this led to a reckless extravagance that

had not its equal. Women lavished money on dress, which grew to be a passion in this fair climate; on

jewellery with which to behang their persons; on fantastic entertainments; men drank, betted, gambled; while

horseracing had already become, with both sexes, the obsession it was to remain. This stylish set it also

included fabulously lucky speculators, as well as the great woolbuyers Mahony did not do much more

than brush in passing. His sympathies inclined rather to that which revolved round the trusty prelate who,

having guided the destinies of the Church through the ups and downs of its infancy, now formed a pivot for

the intellectual interests of the day albeit of a somewhat nonprogressive, antimodern kind. Still, the

atmosphere that prevailed in the pleasant rooms at Bishopscourt was the nearest thing to be found to the

urbane, unworldly air of English university or cathedral life. Next in order came the legal luminaries,

Irishmen for the most part, with keen, ugly faces and scathingly witty tongues; men whose enormous

experience made them the best of good company. And to this clique belonged also the distinguished surgeons

and physicians of the eastern hill; the bankers, astutest of financiers; with, for spice, the swiftly changing

politicians of the moment, here one day, gone the next, with nothing but their ideas or their energy to

recommend them, and dragging with them wives married in their working days. . . well, the less said of the

Such was the society in which Mahony was now called on to take his place. And the result was by so much

the most vivid expression of his personality he had yet succeeded in giving, that it became the one that

imprinted itself on men's minds, to the confusion of what had gone before and was to come after: became the

reality from which his mortal shadow was thrown. "Mahony?" would be the query in later years.

"Mahony? Ah yes, of course, you mean TownshendMahony of 'Ultima Thule,'" this being the name he had

bestowed on his new house. Mary regarded him fondly and with pride. Certain it was, no matter in what

circle she moved, whose dinnertable he sat at, whose hearthrug he stood on, he was by far the most

distinguishedlooking man in the room. And not only this: a kind of mellowness now descended on him, a

new tolerance with his fellowmen. The lines of work and worry disappeared; he filled out both in face and

figure, and loved to tease Mary by declaring he was on the high road to growing fat. He brushed up his

musical accomplishments, too; and his pleasant tenor, his skill as a fluteplayer, brought him into fresh

demand. Miss TimmsKelly, Judge Kelly's daughter, who had quite the finest amateur voice in Melbourne,

was heard to say she preferred Richard's second in a duet to any other; and many an elaborate aria, full of

How happy all this made Mary, she could not have told. To know Richard even moderately contented would

have satisfied her; to see him actually taking pleasure in life caused her Cup to run over. She had now not a

care left, hardly a wish unfulfilled. And she showed it. The eclipse in health and good looks she had suffered

by reason of her transplantation was past: never had she felt better than at present; while in appearance she

bloomed anew enjoyed a kind of Indian summer. At thirtytwo, an age when, in the trying climate of the

colony, a woman was, as often as not, hopelessly faded, Mary did not need to fear comparison with ladies ten

years her junior. Her skin was still flawless, eye as brilliant, her hair as glossy as of old. In figure she inclined

to the statuesque, without being either too tall or too full: arms and shoulders were unsurpassed in their

rounded whiteness. A certain breadth of brow alone prevented her, at this stage of her life, from being classed

among the acknowledged beauties of her sex: it lent her a thoughtful air, where she should have been merely

pleasing. But, after all, what did this matter? Her real beauty, as Richard often reflected, consisted in the

warmth and lovingkindness that beamed from her eyes, illuminating a face which never a malicious thought

had twisted or deformed. Her expression was, of course, no more one of utter unsuspicion experience had

seen to that just as her mind was no longer afflicted with the adorable blindness that had been its leading

trait in girlhood. Mary now knew very well that evil existed, and that mortals were prone to it. But she would

not allow that it could be inborn; held fast to her unconquerable belief in the innate goodness of every living

soul; and was never at a loss to exonerate the sinner. "No wonder he's what he is, after the life he has been

forced to lead. We mightn't have turned out any better ourselves, with his temptations." Or: "She has never

With her anxieties on Richard's behalf, Mary's ambitions for him that he should climb the tree, make a

name also gradually sank to rest. Her mind was thus at liberty to follow its own bent. Fond though she

was of her fellowcreatures, the formal round of social life had never made a very deep appeal to her: she

liked to see people merry and enjoying themselves, but she herself needed something more active to engross

her. Her house, well staffed, well run, claimed only a fraction of her attention. Hence she had plenty of time

to devote herself to what Richard called her true mission in life: the care of others especially of the poor

and suffering, the unhappy and unsure. And many a heart was lightened by having Mary to lean on, her

strong common sense for a guide. Her purse, too, was an unending solace. Even in the latter years in Ballarat,

she had had to dispense her charities carefully, balancing one against another. Now her income was equal to

all the calls made on it . . . and more . . . Richard generously bidding her add to her own pinmoney anything

left over from the handsome cheque he gave her for housekeeping expenses. And since he, mindful of his

promise, never inquired what she did with it, she was at last free to give as royally as she chose . . . in any

direction. But if he did not ask to see her passbook, neither did she see his: he would not have her troubling

her head, he said, about their general expenditure. At first she rather demurred at this: she would have liked to

know how their outlay per month tallied with the sum at their disposal; and she missed the talks they had

been used to have, about how best to portion out their income. But Richard said those days were over and

done with: she would lose her way, he teased her, among sums of four figures for, in a twinkling, his

latefound affluence had thrown him back on the traditional idea that money affairs were the man's province,

not the woman's. For her comfort, he stressed once more the fact that he did not intend to speculate; also that

at long last, he would, despite the enormous premium, be able to insure his life. In the event of anything

happening to him, she would be well provided for, and thus might spend what he gave her freely and without

scruple. Yielding to these persuasions, Mary acquiesced in the new arrangement, and gradually slipped into

the delightful habit of taking money for granted. After all, the confidence was mutual: he trusted her not to

run up bills at milliner's or jeweller's; she, too, had to trust in her turn. She valued his faith in her, and was

careful not to abuse it. Her own accounts were scrupulously kept: just as in the old days, she wrote down

every shilling she spent, and knitted her brows over the halfpennies; with the result that she soon began to

Her charities were her sole extravagance, her personal wants remaining few and simple. Besides, Richard was

for ever making her presents. It could not be said of him that his tastes did not expand with his purse. He put

his menservants into livery, stocked his cellars, bought silver tableappliances and eggshell china, had his

crest stamped wherever it could find a place. And the things he bought for her were of the same costly nature.

In addition to the carriage, which she had to admit was both useful and necessary, his gifts included jewellery

(which she wore more to please him than because she had any real liking for it) rings and chains, brooches

and bracelets all things his wife ought to have and never had had: curling ostrich feathers for hat and fan;

goldmounted motherofpearl operaglasses; handpainted fans; carved ivory cardcases; ivorybacked

brushes and silver vinaigrettes: any fallal, in short, that struck his eye or caught his fancy.

There came a day on which he fairly outdid himself. Soon after inscribing their names in the visitingbook at

Government House, they received invitations to a ball there, in honour of two menofwar that were

anchored in the Bay a very select affair indeed: none of your promiscuous May Day crushes! As it would

be their first appearance in style, Mahony a trifle uncertain whether Mary would do the thing handsomely

enough insisted on fitting her out. The pale blue silk he chose for her gown was finest Lyons, the cost of

which, without making, ran to thirty pounds: Mary had never seen a silk like it. It was got privatim through

John, who had it direct from the French factory. John, too, was responsible for the crowning glory of Mary's

attire. For after Richard had added a high, pearlstudded Spanish comb for her hair, John one day showed

him a wonderful shawl that had just come into the warehouse, suggesting it would look well on Mary. And

for once Mahony found himself in agreement with his brotherinlaw. Of softest cashmere, supple as silk

and even softer to the touch the scarlet ground of the shawl was wellnigh hidden by a massive white

Indian embroidery; so that the impression gained was one of sumptuous white silk, broken by flecks of red. It

was peaked, burnouslike, to form a hood, and this and the corners were hung with heavy white silk tassels.

So magnificent an affair was it that Mary had severe qualms about wearing it: in her heart she considered it

far too showy and elaborate. But Richard had no doubt paid an enormous price for it, and would be hurt into

He himself was charmed with the effect, when she draped it over the skyblue of the gown. "Upon my word,

But even he was not prepared for the stir that ran through the ballroom on their arrival. In among the puces

and magentas, the rosebudded pinks and forgetmenotted blues came Mary, trailing a bit of oriental

splendour, and wearing it, as only she could, with a queenly yet unconscious air. Seated on a dais among the

matrons for nowadays she danced only an occasional "square," leaving round dances to the young

"A skin like old Florentine ivory!" declared an Englishman fresh from "home." The guest of the Governor, he

was wandering through this colonial assembly much as a musical connoisseur might wander through a

cattleyard. Till Mary caught his eye . . . . And when she dropped the cloak, for the honour of a quadrille

with his Excellency, this same visitor was heard to dilate on the tints cast by the blue on the ivory . . . to

Subsequently he was introduced, and sat by her side for the better part of an hour.

At two o'clock, when Mahony handed her to the carriage, it was with something of the loverlike elan that

"Now, madam! . . . wasn't I right? Who was the success of the evening I should like to know?"

"Oh, Richard. . . Put up the window, dear, it's cold. If there can be any talk of a success . . . then it's the cloak

"It took you to carry it off, love. Not another woman in the room could have done it. Made it seem very well

"My business, sweetheart! Yours to play the belle and get compared to the old masters by admiring

"Really, Richard!" Mary made the deprecating movement of the chin with which she was wont to rebuke

extravagances. "Why, dear, he was so highfalutin I didn't know half the time what he was talking about."

Then fearing she had been too severe, she added: "Of course I'm very glad you were pleased," and hoped

that was the end of it. Compliments, even from one's husband, were things to be evaded if possible. "Well, I

must remember poor Jinny and not hoard it up for the moths to get at." But there was more than a dash of

doubt in Mary's tone, and she sighed. Not merely for Jinny. She did not know when another opportunity so

splendid as this evening's would arise. For an ordinary one, such finery would certainly be out of place.

"Wear it or not as you please, love. It has served its end . . . stamped itself on a moment of time," said

But as he helped her from the carriage he stooped and kissed her . . . which Mary was very much afraid the

THAN queening it at balls, she felt more in her element seated in a rather dingily furnished drawingroom,

holding poor Agnes Ocock's hand. Although it had struck five and the worst heat of the day was over, Agnes

was still in her bedgown she had been lying down with the headache, she said nor could Mary

persuade her to exchange this for bonnet and shawl, and drive out with her in the brougham that stood at the

Mary was shocked by the change the past six months had worked in her friend; and disagreeably impressed

by the commonfeatured house in which she found her: it had no garden, but stood right on the dusty St.

Kilda Parade. Agnes was growing very stout; her fine skin looked as creased as her robe, her cheek was

netted with veins, her hair thin, under a cap set awry. Mary knew the rumours that were current; and her heart

"Just as you like, dear. And how are the children? Are they in? May I see them?"

"Oh, yes, the children. Why. . . the truth is, dearest Mary, I haven't . . . they are not with me. Henry thought . .

Agnes's voice broke, and after a painful struggle to compose herself she hid her face in her hands.

Leaning forward Mary laid an arm round her shoulders. "Dearest Agnes, won't you tell me your trouble? Is it

And now there was no sound in the room but that of crying and such crying! It seemed difficult to connect

these heavy nerveracking sobs with the lovely, happy little Agnes of former days. Holding her close, Mary

Yes, it was the loss of the child that was breaking her heart . . . or rather the way in which she had lost it.

"It was the finest baby you ever saw, Mary neither of the others could compare with it. They were all very

well; but this one.... His tiny limbs were so round and smooth it was like kissing velvet. And dimples

everywhere. And he was born with a head of golden hair. I never knew Henry so pleased. He said such a

child did me credit . . . and this used rather to make me wonder, Mary; for Baby wasn't a bit like Henry . . . or

like the other two. He took after my family and had blue eyes. But do you know who he reminded me of most

of all? It was of Eddie, Mary . . . and through Eddie of Mr. Glendinning. When Eddie was born he used to lie

in my lap, just as soft and fair . . . and sometimes I think I forgot, and imagined this baby was Eddie over

again . . . and that made me still fonder of him; for one's first is one's first, love, no matter how many come

after. And then . . . then . . . He was five months old, and beginning to try to grasp things and take notice

oh, such a happy babe! And then one morning, I wasn't feeling well, Mary the doctor said the nursing of

such a hearty child was a great strain on me; then a giddy fit took me I had been giving him the breast and

got up to lay him down nurse wasn't there. I must have been dizzy with sitting so long stooped over him

and he was heavy for his age. I got up and came over faint all of a sudden the doctor says so . . . and I

tottered, Mary, and Baby fell fell out of my arms . . . on his little head I heard the thud yes, the thud

. . . but not a cry or a sound . . . nothing. . . nothing . . . he never cried again."

Mary was weeping, too; the tears ran down her cheeks. But she made no attempt to palliate or console; did

not speak of an accident for which it was impossible to blame yourself; or of God's will, mysterious,

inscrutable: she just grieved, with an intensity of feeling that made her one with the bereft. Things of this

kind went too deep for words; were hurts from which there could be no recovery. Time might grow its moss

As she drove home she reflected, pitifully, how strange it was that so soft and harmless a creature as Agnes

should thus be singled out for some of life's hardest blows. Agnes had so surely been born for happiness

and to make others happy. Misfortunes such as these ought to be kept for people of stronger, harder natures

and with broader backs; who could suffer and still carry their heads high. Agnes was merely crushed to earth

And went on: "It was hushed up, my dear, you bet! kept dark as the grave . . . doctor changed, etc. etc.

They actually 'ad the face to put it down to the nurse's carelessness: said nurse being packed off at once,

handsomely remunerated, mind you, to hold 'er tongue. An' a mercy the child died; the doctor seemed to

think it might 'ave been soft, 'ad it lived after such a knock on the pate and can you see Henry dragging

the village idiot at 'is heels? Never was a man in such a fury, Mary. Ugh! that white face with those little

pitchblack eyes rolling round in it it gave me the fair shakes to look at 'im. 'Pon my word I believe, if 'e'd

dared, 'e'd 'ave slaughtered Agnes there and then. His child, his son! you know the tune of it. 'E'll never

forgive 'er, mark my words he won't! . . . the disgrace and all that for of course everybody knew all about

it and a good deal more. She was odd enough beforehand, never going anywhere. Now she's taking the sea

air at St. Kilda, and, if you ask me, she'll go on taking it . . . till Doomsday."

Tilly shrugged. "It's six of one and 'alf a dozen of the other to my mind. I'd almost rather be put away to rot

like a poisoned rat in a hole, than live under the whip of Mossieu Henry's tongue not to mention 'is eye!"

"Ah, but you can't, my dear! . . . don't make any mistake about that. You might as well try to bend a bar of

iron as 'Enry. And I must say, Mary, it does sometimes seem a good deal of fuss to make over one small

"Tilly!" Mary looked up from her sewing the two women sat on the verandah of Tilly's house in Ballarat,

where Mary was visiting in reproof and surprise at a speech so unlike her friend. It was not the first either;

Tilly often wore a mopy, worldweary air nowadays, which did not sit naturally on her. "Each child that lives

"Oh, well, I s'pose so. And as you know, love, I'd 'ave 'ad a dozen if I could. It wouldn't 'ave been one too

Mary believed she read the answer to the riddle. "Look here, Tilly, you're lonely . . . that's what's the matter

"Fact is, Mary, I want something to do. As long as dear old Pa lived, and I 'ad the boys to look after, it was all

right I never knew what it was to be dull. But now. . . P'r'aps if they'd let me keep Tom and Johnny . . . or

if I could groom my own 'orses or ride 'em at the stakes . . . No, no, of course, I know it wouldn't do or be

"I wonder, Tilly," said Mary, "I wonder if. . . have you never thought, dear, at times like these that . . . that

perhaps you might some day marry again?" She put the question very tentatively, knowing Tilly's robust

"Oh!" said Mary. And to cover up her amazement, added: "I think it would be the very best thing that could

There followed a pause of some length. Mary did not know what to make of it. Tilly was humming and

"Yes, my dear," she said at length, in answer to Mary's invitation to speak out: "I have something on my chest

. . . something I want to say to you, Mary, and yet don't quite know, 'ow. Fact is, I want you to do me a good

turn, my dear. No, now just you wait a jiff, till you 'ear what it is. Tell you what, Mary, I've found meself

regularly down in the mouth of late off me grub and that sort of thing. No, Pa's death has nothing

whatever to do with it. I was getting on famously right as a trivet till . . . well, till I went to town

yes, that time, you know, to meet you and the doctor." And as Mary still sat blank and uncomprehending, she

blurted out: "Oh, well . . . till I saw . . . oh, you know! till I met a certain person again."

Tilly nodded, heavily, gloomily, without the ghost of a smile. "Yes, it's a fact and not one I'm proud of

either, as you can guess. And yet again I ask meself why not? I need some one to look after, Mary . . . and

that's the truth. 'E's down on his luck, as always; can't get the money to stick; and I've more than I know what

to do with. And to see 'im there, lookin' so poor and shabby, and yet keeping 'is pecker up as 'e did why, I

dunno, but it seemed some'ow to 'urt me 'ere!" and Tilly, her aitches scattering more wildly than usual

under the stress of her emotion, laid her hands, one over the other, on her left breast.

"Oh! now don't go and but me, Polly, like the dear good soul you are and always 'ave been. If you mean, am I

going to let 'im make ducks and drakes of poor old Pa's money, I can truly say no no fear! Not this child.

But . . . well . . . look 'ere, Mary, I 'aven't spit out the whole truth yet. You'll laugh at what I'm going to tell

you, and well you may do; it sounds rum enough. But you know they do say old folks fall to playing again

with toys, cuddling dolls and whittling chips. Well, a certain person 'ad a bit of hair, Poll, that used to curl

behind 'is ear many and many's the time in the old spoony days I've sat and twiddled it round me finger.

Now, 'is hair's wearing thin on top, but the curl's still there and I . . . would you believe it? . . . yes, I'm

blessed if my finger didn't itch to be at it again. And what's worse, has itched ever since. 'Ere I go, properly in

the dumps and the doldrums, and feeling as if nothing 'ull ever matter much any more if I can't. Oh, there's no

fool like an old fool, Mary love! . . . and nobody knows that better than the old fool 'im herself."

"Oh come, Tilly, you're not quite so ancient as you try to make out! As to what you say . . . it's been the living

But though she spoke in a reassuring tone, Mary was none the less genuinely perturbed: her robust, sensible

Tilly reduced to such a foolish state! Why, it was like seeing one's dearest friend collapse under a sudden

"P'r'aps. And p'r'aps not. But what I want you to do for me, old girl, is this. Ask me down to stop for a bit, and

ask him to the house while I'm there. The rest I'll manage for myself. Only you won't let on to the doctor, will

you, love, what I've told you? I don't want the doctor to know. 'E'd look down 'is nose at me with that queer

look of his no, I couldn't stand it, Poll! Henry, too I shall keep 'Enry in the dark till it's too late. 'E'd

raise Cain. For, of course 'e thinks what Pa left's safe to come to his brats. While, if I fix things up as I want

Tell Richard? No, indeed! As that same afternoon Mary drove in Tilly's double buggy down the dusty slope

of Sturt Street, and out over the Flat, she imagined to herself what Richard would say and think did she

make him partner in Tilly's confidences. What? . . . try to trap a man, and an old friend to boot, into a loveless

marriage, merely because you want to twist a bit of hair round your finger? He would snort with disgust at

such folly . . . besides thinking it indelicate into the bargain. As she was afraid she, Mary, did a little, too. The

difference was: she saw, as he never would, that loneliness was at the bottom of it; loneliness, and the want of

some one to care for, or, as Tilly put it, of something to do. It might also be that the old girlish inclination had

never quite died out, but only slumbered through all these years. Not that that would count with Richard;

indeed, it might count in just the opposite way. For he was more than straitlaced where things of this kind

were in question; had a constitutional horror of them; and he would not consider it at all nice for the seeds of

an old attachment to have stayed alive in you, while you were happily married to some one else. Another

point: if Purdy yielded to the temptation and took Tilly and her money, Richard might always think less well

of him for doing so; which would be a thousand pities, now a first move towards a reconciliation had been

made. Whereas if the engagement seemed to come about of itself . . . . And in this respect there was really

something to be said for it. Purdy once married and settled, the foolish barrier that had grown up between the

two men would fall away, and they again become the friends they had been of old.

Reasoning thus, Mary arrived at a row of mean little weatherboard houses, in one of which Ned lived. She

did not knock, but stepped across the verandah, turned the doorknob and went down the passage. It was a

Monday, and washing day. The brick floor of the kitchen overflowed with water, in which the young fry

played. Polly, turning from the tubs, ran her hands down her arms to sluice off the lather, before extending

them, all moist and crinkled, in an embrace. By the copper sat Ned poor Ned convalescent from the

attack of acute bronchitis which had brought Mary in hot haste to Ballarat a few weeks previously. Ned's

chest and shoulders were wrapped up in an old red flannel petticoat, pinned under the chin; his feet, well out

of the damp's way on an upturned sugarbox, were clad in downatheel felt slippers. His thick ringletty hair

and curly beard hung long and unkempt above the scarlet drapery, forming a jetblack aureole from which

Pouncing on Mary he talked volubly, in the hoarse whisper that was all the voice his illness had left him. It

was the same old Ned, holding forth in the same old way: on the luck that had always been against him, the

fair chance he had never yet had; man and theme lit up by the same unquenchable optimism. He had today a

yarn to tell of the fortune he might have made, not three months back, had he only at the critical moment been

able to lay hands on the needful: men had gone in and won who had not a quarter of his flair. How much of

this was truth and how much imagination, Mary did not know or greatly care unlike Polly who, rasped

beyond measure, clicked an angry tongue and lashed out at Ned's "atrocious lies."

Striving to keep the peace by dropping in soothing words, Mary sat and pondered how best these poor souls

could be helped. On the voyage out, she had seriously considered adopting one perhaps even two of

the blackhaired brood. But again Polly made short work of the suggestion. Not even to Mary whom she

"They're me own and I'll stick to 'em, come what may! For they're all I've got, dearie . . . all I'll ever get from

the whole galumphing galoot." With which Mary was forced to agree; and though seven lived and a ninth

Nor could Polly be induced to part from them even for the benefit of their education.

"Ta, love, you mean it kindly, but I'll not have 'em brought up above their station. They're a workingman's

kids, and such they'll remain. Besides, you may be sure there'll be some of Ned's blowfly notions in some of

their heads. And the State School's the best place to knock such nonsense out of 'em." Which, duly reported

by Mary, Richard said was a gross example of parental selfishness. What right had a mother to stand in the

way of her offspring? No child with any true affection would grow up to despise his parents. On the contrary,

as he understood the sacrifice they had made for him, his love for them would deepen and increase. But this

No, what Ned and Polly wanted was money, and money alone. This piece of knowledge was accompanied,

however, by so disagreeable a sensation that Mary was thankful Richard was not there to share it. Not only

were they ready to take every shilling offered . . . poor things, no one could blame them for that, pinched and

straitened as they were . . . it was their manner of accepting that wounded Mary. They pocketed what Richard

sent them almost as a matter of course, frankly inspecting the amount, and sometimes even going so far as to

wrinkle their noses over it. Which was really hardly fair; for Richard was very generous to them; considering

they were no blood relations of his, and he felt they didn't like him. Nor did they: there was no getting away

from that; they showed it even to the extent of begrudging him his good luck . . . without which he would

have been unable to do anything for them! Poor Ned's eye was hot with envy whenever Richard's rise in the

"I say, infra dig. isn't it and no mistake, for a heavy swell like he is, to have such lowdown connections. . .

Mary could not bring herself to sit in judgment on them: for all his tall talk, Ned had never harmed a fly; and

Polly's was just a generous nature warped and twisted by poverty and an imprudent marriage. All the same

she took great pains not to let Richard know how the wind blew. Her letters to him, on Ned and Polly's

behalf, were full of the warm gratitude she herself would have felt had she stood in their shoes.

FOR the first time in his life Mahony found himself in possession of all the books he wanted: rare books hard

to get; expensive books he had till now never felt justified in buying. And Mary, his social conscience, being

absent, he fell into depths of abstraction from which there was nothing to rouse him.

His two old archenemies time and money or rather the lack of them had definitely ceased to plague

him. His leisure was unbounded, the morrow well provided for, and the material comfort of his present

surroundings such as he had hitherto known only in dreams. No domestic sounds rasped his ear, scattered his

attention; his spacious study, booklined from ceiling to floor, stood apart from the rest of the house, and was

solidly built. Was cool and airy, too; even in the heat of midday he caught a whiff of the sea. The garden with

its shrubberies and lawns of buffalograss, its spreading figtrees and dark firs, rested and refreshed the eye.

His meals appeared on the table as by clockwork, served as he liked them, cooked to a turn. And so greatly

did the hermit's life he now led jump with his mood, that invitations to social functions grew flyspotted on

He first undertook to examine the great moderns: those worldfamous scientists and their philosophic

spokesmen who dominated the intellectual life of the day. So far he had read their works only in snatches,

and at random. He now reread them systematically; followed step by step the presentment of their

monumental theories the idea of evolution, the origin of species, the antiquity of man as well as the

Thus weeks passed. At the end of this time Mary being still from home he emerged heavyeyed and a

trifle dazed, from sittings protracted late into the night, and paused to take his bearings. And it was now, on

looking back over what he had read, that he became aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction. Chiefly with regard

to the mental attitude of the writers themselves. So sound were their arguments that they might well, he

thought, have refrained from the pontifical airs they saw fit to adopt; having been a shade less intolerant of

views and beliefs that did not dovetail with their own. Riding on the crest of the highest wave of materialism

that had ever broken over the world, they themselves were satisfied that life and its properties could be

explained, to the last iota, in terms of matter; and, dogmatically pronouncing their interpretation of the

universe to be the only valid one, they laid a crushing veto on any suggestion of a possible spiritual agency.

Here it was, he parted company with them. For the same thing had surely happened before, in the world's

history, bodies of learned men arising at various epochs in divers lands, and claiming to have solved the great

riddle once and for all? Over and above this, did Huxley's inflamed outbursts against the "cosmogony of the

semibarbarous Hebrew"; his sighs that the "myths of Paganism, dead as Osiris or Zeus," had not been

followed to their graves by the "coeval imaginations current among the rude inhabitants of Palestine"; his

bald definition of science as "trained and organised common sense" did Huxley's type of mind, or yet that

of another wellknown savant, who declared that one should decide beforehand what was possible and what

not, incline you to trust these men's verdict on the spiritual issues of human existence? In his own case,

certainly not. He believed and would continue to believe it impossible wholly to account for life and its

Another thing that baffled him was: why, having advanced to a certain point, should they suddenly stop short,

with a kingly gesture of: "Thus far and no farther"? Devoting decades of laborious research to the origin of

life on this globe, its age, its evolution, why should they leave untouched two questions of still more vital

import: life's ultimate goal, and the moral mysteries of the soul of man? Yes, the chief bone he had to pick

with them was that they had no will to fathom such deeps; plumed themselves instead on coldshouldering

them; flaunted as their device: ignoramus et ignorabimus. Arrogantly sure of themselves, carried away by a

passion for facts, they covered with ridicule those the seers, the poets, the childlike in heart who, over

and above the rational and knowable, caught glimpses of what was assumed to be unknowable; declaring,

with a fierce and intolerant unimaginativeness, that the assertion which outstripped the evidence was not only

a blunder, but a crime. Strange, indeed, was it to watch these masters toiling to interpret human life, yet

denying it all hope of a further development, any issue but that of eternal nothingness. For his part, he could

not see why the evolutionformula should be held utterly to rule out the transcendentalformula. But so it

was; every line of their works confirmed it. . . confirmed, too, the reader's opinion that, in their bigoted

attitude of mind, they differed not so very markedly from those hardandfast champions of orthodoxy who,

in the rising flood of enlightenment, remained perilously clinging to the vanishing rock of dogma and

tradition. On the one hand, for all answer to the burning needs and questions of the hour, the tale of Creation

as told in Genesis, the Thirtynine Articles, the intolerable Athanasian Creed; on the other, as bitterly

stubborn an agnosticism each surely, in the same degree, stones for bread. One would have liked to call to

them: Fear not to turn the light of research on the conception of that immortality which you affirm . . . which

Thus it came about that, little by little, Mahony found himself drifting away from the barren conclusions of

science: just as in earlier years he had cast loose from a too rigid orthodoxy. Occult subjects had always had a

strong fascination for him, and he now turned back to them; read ancient screeds on alchemy and astrology;

the writings of Paracelsus and Apollonius of Tyana. Thence he dived into mysticism; studied the biographies

of Saint Theresa, Joseph Glanvill, Giordano Bruno; and pondered anew the trance history of Swedenborg.

Men and women like these, living their lives as a kind of experiment, and an arduous and painful experiment

at that, were yet supported and uplifted by the consciousness of a mighty power outside, and at the same time

within themselves: a bottomless well of spiritual strength. Out of this inspiration they taught confidently that

all life emanated from God (no matter what form it assumed in its progress), to God would return, and in Him

continue to exist. Yes, spirituality outstripped intellect; there were mysteries at once too deep and too simple

for learned brains to fathom. Actually, the unlettered man who said: "God is, and I am of God!" came nearest

to reading the riddle of the universe. How cold and comfortless, too, the tenet that this one brief span of being

ended all. Without faith in a life to come, how endure, stoically, the ills that here confronted us? . . . the

injustices of human existence, the evil men did, the cruelty of man to his brothers, of God to man? Postulate a

Hereafter, and the hope arose that, some day, the ultimate meaning of all these apparent contradictions would

be made plain: the endless groping, struggling, suffering prove but rungs in the ladder of humanity's upward

climb. Not for him the Byzantine Heaven of the churches, with its mental stagnation, its frozen immobility,

wherein a jealous God, poorer in charity than the feeble creatures built in His image, spent Eternity damning

those who had failed to propitiate Him. Nor yet the doctrine of the Fall of a perfect man from grace. Himself

he held this present life to be but a portal, an antechamber, where dwelt an imperfect but wholly vital

creation, which, growing more and more passionately aware with the passing of the ages of its selfcontained

divinity, would end by achieving, by being reabsorbed in, the absolute consciousness of the Eternal.

Yes, old faiths lay supine, stunned by the hammer blows of science; and science had nothing soulsatisfying

to offer in their place. Surely now, if ever, the age was ripe for a new revelation: racked by doubts, or cut to

the heart by atheistic denial, it cried aloud for a fresh proof of God's existence, and of God's concern with

man. Restlessly feeling his way, Mahony set himself to take the measure, where he had so far only

dabbled in it, of the new movement spiritualism, which, from its rise in a tiny American hamlet, had run like

a wildfire over Europe. If what its followers claimed for it was true and among them were men of

standing whose words could not be dismissed with a shrug if the spirits of those who had crossed the

bourne were really able . . . as in the days of Moses and the prophets . . . to return and speak with their loved

ones then it meant that a new crisis had arisen in man's relation to the Unseen, with which both science

and religion would eventually have to reckon. Unlike the majority, he was not put off by the commonplace

means of communication employed the rappings and the tappings, the laborious telling over of the

alphabet nor yet by the choice, as agents, or the illiterate and immature. He recalled the early history of

Christianity: the Chaldean shepherds; the Judean carpenter's shop; the unlettered fishermen; the sneers and

gibes of Roman society. God's ways had never been, never would be man's ways. Why, even as it was, some

found the practice of conventional Christianity none too easy, thanks to the frailty of the human channels

through which the great message had to pass: the supercilious drawl of a ritualistic parson; one's inability to

admit that a bad priest might read a true Mass; the fact that the celebrant from whom you received the

Eucharist was known to be, in his spare hours, drinker and gambler, or one of those who systematically

hunted small animals to death. Measured by such stumblingblocks as these, the spiritualists' sincere faith

and homely conduct of their seances did not need to shirk comparison. Indeed, there would sometimes seem

to be more genuine piety at their meetings than at many an ordinary church service. But, however one looked

at it, the question to be answered remained: was it possible to draw from this new movement proofs of the

knowledge one's soul craved the continuity of existence; the nearness, the interwovenness, of the spiritual

Mary wrote: What in all the world are you doing with yourself Richard? The Carters quite expected you last

Wednesday, and the Rentouls had a place laid at dinner for you on Friday evening. Both write me hoping you

To which Mahony replied: Nonsense, my dear, I am getting on capitally servants most attentive, and Cook

You see where I am now. The Urquharts insisted on my coming out and Tilly with me. There's a large

party here as usual, and picnics, dancing, music and singing go on all the time. I was sorry to leave Ballarat,

which is as lovely as ever, and every one just as kind. Willy is just the same; so full of life and fun you really

can't help liking him, however much you may disapprove. Both he and Louisa seem pleased to have me and

are full of regrets that you are not with me. I think it is a great pity you didn't take my advice and come too.

Not I! was Richard's response. They never wanted me when I was among them; why on earth should they

miss me now? . . . when they've had ample time to forget all about me. It's only your own imagination.

And Mary: What rubbish you do talk, dear! I believe you're growing odd and fanciful through being so much

alone. Do go out more, and not coop yourself up so. Well, we're still here. Louisa won't hear of our

leaving; it's quite a change for her to have friends of her own in the house the others are mostly Willy's.

Poor Louisa through never getting away I mean with all the babies, etc.makes hardly any. She looks far

older than her age, and " very " dowdy. She needs some one to take her in band and freshen her up. I've made

her promise to spend at least a month with me after I get back the last baby's well over a year now, and

there are no fresh expectations in the meantime, thank goodness . . . twelve are surely enough. I intend to

stitch a rose in her bonnet, and teach her how to do her hair. Also get her into one of the new bustles her

dresses are in the style of the year one. She would still be quite pretty if nicely dressed, and I think that would

be much more effective than sitting moping and fretting, and not caring how she looks. Fretting about Willy,

I mean. I'm afraid he's incurable. He's very much �pris again at _present. This time it's a fascinating widow

who's stopping here a very charming person, and interested unfortunately in everything Willy's interested

in horses, dogs, riding, driving, cattle and sheep to cut it short, all Louisa isn't.

A week later. I had a long talk with Mrs. Marriner that's the widowlady I mentioned in my last. She's

really much attached to Louisa, and would be her friend if only Louisa would let her. (Now I'm not imagining

this!) But L. is so jealous that she can hardly be civil. There was quite a scene last night. It ended by poor

Louisa going to bed in floods of tears. Of course I can see it from her side, too. It must be very hard to know

that another woman pleases your husband better than you do. Still, Willy has had so many fancies in his day,

I think Louisa needn't take this one too seriously. Gracey Mrs. Marriner, that is was quite upset about

it herself. She is really very charming and it isn't exactly her fault: she can't help pleasing. And so sensible,

too. We had a talk, she and I, about poor Agnes and her failing she knows all about it and she quite

And again: Oh no, Richard, you've got quite a false idea of her. She's anything but designing not one of

those widows who go about setting their caps at men. But you'll be able to see for yourself; for she talks of

taking a house at Brighton. And I'm sure you'll like her, and get on well with her she's so clever. You

should have heard her yesterday evening discussing the reform of gaols and penitentiaries with a gentleman

Back in Ballarat, Mary wrote: Well! I've done the deed, dear. I thought it best not to mention it beforehand,

for I knew you would write about minding one's own business, not interfering between husband and wife, etc.

Tilly and I came back to "Beamish House" at the end of the week, and on Wednesday off I went and paid a

visit to Mr. Henry. He couldn't have received me more civilly. He told his clerk he would see nobody else

while I was there, and had wine and biscuits fetched I can tell you, paid me every attention. He also asked

most kindly after you. As you may guess, I approached the subject of Agnes very gingerly. Just hinted I

had seen her and how sorry I was to find her in such a poor state of health. He was rather reserved at first. But

when I gave him to understand she had confided in me, and how brokenhearted she was and what

reproaches she was making herself, and when I sympathised with him over the loss of such a beautiful child .

. . why, then he quite thawed and came out of his shell. Indeed all but broke down. Think of that with Mr.

Henry, who has always been so cold and stern! You'll perhaps say it is chiefly his pride he has been hurt in:

but don't you think that's hard enough, for a man like him? Well, one thing led to another, and before long we

were talking quite freely about poor little Agnes and her terrible weakness. He admitted he was at his wits'

end to know what to do with her. Had had some thoughts of putting her in a Home, under a doctor's care: but

shrinks from the publicity and disgrace. Then he fears her bad example on the children the boy Georgy is

seven now, and sharp as a needle. One thing I made him promise and that was, to let Agnes leave that

dreadful house and come to us for a bit, where she can have the children with her again. (I'll take good care

they don't disturb you, dear.) When I came away he took both my hands and shook them and said: "God bless

you, my dear Mrs. Mahony! I shall never forget your great kindness in this matter. Nor do I know another

soul certainly not one of your sex to whom I could have spoken as I have to you." Think of that from

Mr. Henry! Tilly hasn't got over it yet. She says it comes of me having worn my best bonnet (the gay one

with the flower in, that you like). But of course that's only her nonsense. And I do feel so glad I went and

I hope the silk vests are a great success, and that you remember the days for changing them.

"MY pap�h dotes on music. Positively, I have known my pap�h to say he would rather go without his port at

dinner than his music after dinner. My pap�h has heard all the most famous singers. In his opinion, no one

could compare with Malibran." Thus Miss TimmsKelly; and at his cue the chubby, whitehaired old Judge,

surreptitiously snatching forty winks in a dark corner of the drawingroom, would start, open his eyes, and,

"Malibran? . . . ah, now there was a voice for you! Pasta could not hold a candle to her. As a young man I

never missed an opera when she sang. Great nights, great nights! The King's Theatre packed to suffocation.

All of us young musiclovers burning with enthusiasm . . . our palms tingling from applause." Here however,

at some private sign, the speaker abruptly switched off his reminiscences, which threatened to carry him

away, and got to the matter in hand. "My dear, give us, if you please, Casta diva. Though I say so myself,

there is something in my daughter's rendering of that divine air that recalls Malibran in her prime."

A musical party at the TimmsKellys' tempted even Mahony forth. On such evenings, in company with other

devotees, he would wander up Richmond Hill and through the wooden gates of Vaucluse, where a knot of

houses stood sequestered in a grove. The French windows of the TimmsKellys' drawingroom were

invariably set wide open; and guests climbing the hill could hear, while still some way off, the great voice

Miss TimmsKelly herself bore the brunt of the entertainment; occasionally mingling in a duo with some

manly second, or with the strains of Mahony's flute; but chiefly in solo. For the thin little tones of the other

ladies, their tinkly performances of "Maiden's Prayers" and "Warblings at Eve," or the rollicking strains of a

sea ballad (which was mostly what the gentlemen were good for) stood none of them an earthly chance

against a voice like hers. It was a contralto, with, in its middle and lower registers, tones of a strange, dark

intensity which made of it a real voix sombre; yet of such exceptional compass that it was also equal to Or sai

chi l'onore and Non mi dir, bell' idol mio. Mahony used to say there was something in its lower notes that got

at you, "like fingers feeling round your heart." Ladies, while admitting its volume and beauty, were apt to be

rendered rather uncomfortable by it; and under its influence would fall to fidgeting in their seats.

In person Miss TimmsKelly matched her voice: though not over tall she was generously proportioned, with

a superb bust and exquisitely sloping shoulders. Along with this handsome figure went piquantly small hands

and feet she boasted a number three shoe white teeth, full lips, a fresh complexion. But her chief

charm lay in her animation of manner: she was alive with verve and gesture; her every second word seemed

spoken in italics. Amazing, thought and said all, that one so fascinating should have reached the brink of the

thirties without marrying; society had known her now for twelve years, and during this time the marvellous

voice had rung out night for night, her old father faithfully drawing attention to its merits, the while he grew

But the little court that surrounded Miss TimmsKelly consisted chiefly of married men and bachelors well

past marrying age: greybeards who, in listening to the strains of Norma or Semiramide, relived their youth.

Eligible men fought a little shy of the lady and after a couple of visits to the house were apt to return no more.

Happily, Miss TimmsKelly did not take this greatly to heart. Indeed she even confessed to a relief at their

truancy. "All my life, love, I have preferred the company of elderly gentlemen. They make one feel so safe."

In process of dressing for such an evening, Mary remarked: "Of course, it's very nice of Lizzie to say that . . .

and most sensible. But all the same it is odd I mean the fact of her never having married. Not only because

of her voice one doesn't just marry a voice. But she really is a dear, warmhearted creature. And so

generous." At which Mahony stopped shaving his chin to throw in: "That's precisely it. Your marriageable

man instinctively fears not being able to live up to the fair singer's generosity."

"Really, Richard! . . . it takes you to say queer things. Now I believe it comes of Lizzie never having had a

But for all his twoedged comments, let Miss TimmsKelly but open her mouth to sing, and Mahony was

hopelessly her slave. His natural instinct for music had outlived even the long years of starvation in this

country, where neither taste nor performance was worth a straw. Under the present stimulus, his dormant

feelings awoke to new life: when the great voice rang forth he would sit rapt . . . absorbed. And where others,

but faintly responsive to the influence, listened with only half an ear, the while they followed their own trains

of thought, musing, gently titillated: "How fine the moon tonight!" or "I shall certainly succeed, if I carry

through that deal," or "Perhaps after all Julia will hear my suit," he surrendered thought for emotion, and

climbed the ladder of sound to a world built wholly of sound, where he moved lightfootedly and at ease.

"Upon my soul, I would walk ten miles to hear her rendering of an aria by Mozart or Verdi!"

This was all very well in its way its musical way. But now something happened which brought him with a

bump to earth. And, ever after, he twitted and blamed himself with having been the innocent cause of a most

Towards the close of her stay in Ballarat, Mary had a second meeting a chance one, this time with Mr.

Henry Ocock. And Ocock, in his new role of friend and adviser, let fall a hint with regard to a certain mining

company in which he believed Mahony held shares. This was not the case; but Mary rather thought John did,

begged Richard to find out, and if so, to let him know what was being said. As Mr. Henry's information had

been sub rosa, Mahony thought it wise to pass it on by word of mouth, and wrote John saying he would drop

in for a moment the following evening, on his way to Richmond: he was bound with his flute for Vaucluse. In

the morning, however, John's groom brought a note asking him to take potluck with the family at six

o'clock. Such things were possible in John's house nowadays, under the fairy rule of Miss Julia. And so he

As usual at this stage, when he had not seen his brotherinlaw for a time, Mahony's chief sensation on

meeting John was one of discomfort. Without doubt, some great change was at work in John. Lean as a

herring, yellow as a Chinaman, he had been for months past. But the change in his manner was even more

striking. Gone was much of the highhandedness, the pompous arrogance it had once been so hard to

stomach; gone the opulent wordiness of his pronunciamentos. He was now in point of becoming a morose

and taciturn sort of fellow; prone, too, to fits of blankness in which, staring straight before him, he seemed to

forget your very presence. So much at least was plain: John was not taking the universe by any means so

Money troubles? . . . such was the first thought that leapt to Mahony's mind. Then he laughed at himself.

John's business flourished like the green baytree: you never heard of it but it was putting forth a fresh shoot in

a fresh direction. No lack of money there! the notion was just a telling example of how one instinctively

tried to read into another, what had been one's own chief bogey. Besides, the warning passed on by Mary left

John cold: he waved it aside with a gesture that said: a few thousands more or less signified nothing to him.

Could the wife's idea that he was fretting over the loss of his boy be the right one? Again, no: that was just a

woman's interpretation: he jumped to money, she to the emotional, the personal. Then after all it must be

John's health that was causing him anxiety. But a tactful question on this score called forth so curt a negative

Not till the nuts and port were on the table did John shake off his abstraction. Then his trio of little girls ran

into the room with the playful antics of so many tame white mice ran in and rubbed their sleek little

combringed heads against their father's, and climbed over him with their thin little whitestockinged legs.

And John became solely the fond parent, gathering his children to him, taking the youngest on his knee and

holding her to his wateredsilk waistcoat, letting them play with the long gold chain from which depended

his pincenez, count his studs with their little fingers, disarrange the ends of his tie. At the lower end of the

table Emmy, who had presided over the meal a radiant vision in white muslin and blue ribbons, flushed,

drooped her head, and looked as though she were going to cry. For though the lovely girl had throughout

dinner hung distractingly on her father's lips, he had never so much as glanced in her direction.

In watching her, Mahony fell into a reverie, so vividly did she remind him of her dead mother, and the one

the only time he had seen John's first wife. It was here, in this very room, that the gracious Emma, the

picture of all that was comely, had dandled her babes. One of the two, like herself, had vanished from mortal

When Emmy shepherded the little girls to their nursery, he turned to John. "Upon my soul, it makes a man

Something in this reflection seemed to flick John. His response was more in his old style. "You say so? For

my part I cannot admit to feeling a day older than I did ten years back. I am not aware of any decrease of

vigour. I still rise at six, take a cold showerbath, and attend to business for a couple of hours before

breakfast. I have needed neither to diet myself for a gouty constitution, nor to coddle myself in flannel. Age?

After this one outburst, however, he relapsed into his former moody silence; and they sat smoking, with scant

speech, till Mahony rose to leave. Then it turned out that John had forgotten the existence of a previous

engagement on Mahony's side, and now made a lame attempt to overthrow it. ("Looks as if he didn't want to

be left to his own thoughts!") This being impossible, Mahony suggested that John should accompany him,

and undertook to guarantee him a hearty welcome: it would be well worth his while to hear Miss

TimmsKelly sing. At first John poohpoohed the suggestion; musical evenings were not in his line; and

though he had knocked up against old TimmsKelly at the Club, he had never met the daughter. However, in

"And that, my dear, was how it came about in the first place. I dragged him with me, like the fool I was. And,

once there, the game was up. From the moment John entered the drawingroom, your friend Lizzie made

what I can only describe as a dead set at him. She never took her eyes off him. She talked to him, she talked

at him; she sang for him, asked his opinion of her selections; and there sat John, who doesn't know doh from

re, or a major key from a minor, tapping his foot to the tune and looking as if he had been a judge of music all

his life. On two occasions afterwards, I found him there. Mind you, only two. Then came that unfortunate

evening at Ernani. It's no use asking me, Mary, how the muddle occurred. I can't tell you; I had nothing to do

with it. All I know is, after the opera Mrs. Vance had to be escorted back to North Melbourne; and this job

naturally fell to me, John not being the man to shoulder unpleasant duties if he can, with propriety, put them

off on some one else. Well, we hired a wagonette and drove away in a violent thundershower leaving

the other three outside the theatre. But it appears that somehow or other, what with the rain and the crush, the

two of them lost sight of the old man. According to John's account they stood waiting for him to turn up till

Miss Lizzie's teeth were chattering with cold. There seemed nothing for it but for him to call a cab and drive

her home. He did so, and the next morning I'm hanged if he doesn't get a furious letter from the father,

accusing them of having slipped off alone on purpose. John heads straight for Vaucluse to apologise; and

when he gets there the old man hammers the table, declares his daughter has been compromised, and ends by

demanding to know John's intentions. Now I ask you, what could John what could any man with the

feelings of a gentleman do, but offer the only reparation in his power and at once propose for her hand?

Therewith, of course the old boy cools down . . . becomes amiability itself. I don't know, my dear, whether

John was really guilty of an indiscretion that's his affair. But if you want my candid opinion, I think the

Mary, whom the news of John's engagement had brought flying home from Ballarat, here uttered a

disclaimer. "Tch! There you go, Richard . . . jumping to conclusions . . . as usual. Still, I must say . . . I'm

confident, as far as John was concerned, he had no idea of marrying again. I really don't know what to think."

"Don't be sarcastic! You know quite well I'm very fond of Lizzie. But poor John was so comfortably settled

I mean with Miss Julia to look after him. It seemed as if he was going to have peace at last. And then,

"Indeed and I do. Though, on the other hand . . . stepmother to two families . . . I shouldn't care, love, to take

on the job. But there's another thing, Mary. Your brother is decidedly queer just now I mean in his manner

. . . and appearance. He looks a tired man. My own opinion is, he's seen the best of his health. Of course, he's

lived a strenuous life like all the rest of us and isn't as young as he was. But that's not enough . . .

doesn't account for everything. And makes what has happened very disturbing. If only I'd let well alone that

evening . . . he'd probably never have set eyes on the woman. It is certainly a lesson to mind one's own

business even when it's a question of doing a kindness . . . or what one thinks a kindness."

"My d�hling Mary! So we are to be sisters, love actually sisters! I cannot say how overjoyed I am. Never

have I had such a surprise, d�hling, as when my pap�h informed me your brother had declared himself. I said:

'Pap�h, are you sure you are not mistaken?' For never had I imagined, love, that such a clever and

accomplished man as your brother would select me, from all the ladies of his acquaintance. My heart still

flutters when I think of it. I walk on air. Yes, d�hling! Though how I shall ever manage to leave my dear

"Dear Lizzie! I, too, am very glad. But what about the children? Have you thought if it will suit you to be

"Mary! The d�hlings! The poor neglected lambs! Why, I yearn, dearest, simply yearn to show them a

But on Emmy being presented, Lizzie's fervour suffered a visible abatement. Even to Mary's eye. And an

embrace given and received, her stepmothertobe looked the girl up and down, with a coolness which not

"My d�hling! Why, Mary, love, I had no idea positively I had not . . . I declare it will be like having a

younger sister. My d�hling girl! And I will show you how to dress your hair, love two puffs, one on

each side of the parting it will be a great improvement to your appearance. That will please pap�h, won't

it? His dear pet, I feel sure. Who will be able to tell me all his little ways."

"I hate the way she does her hair, Aunt Mary. I wouldn't wear mine like that not for anything! And I'm not

going to show her how papa likes things done. Oh, couldn't I come and live with you and Uncle Richard?

I shall never be happy here, any more. Why does papa want to get married? Auntie Julia always promised me

I should keep house for him, and he would learn to like me in time. And now . . . now. . ."

It was not for a daughter to sit in judgment on her father, and Mary gently rebuked Emmy, even while she

reflected that the girl had really a great deal of John's own spirit in her. Lizzie would not find her new

position a bed of roses. For neither did the little ones take to her. They clung to Auntie Julia's hands and skirts

although, to these children who were without personal beauty, their future mother was still more gracious

than to Emmy. At first, that was. Afterwards, remarked Mahony who was present at the introduction:

afterwards when she saw that they were not to be cozened into friendliness, she made him think of a

pretended animal lover, who, on a dog failing to respond to his advances, looks as though he will presently

kick it on the sly. But then Richard had flown to the other extreme, and become both prejudiced and unfair,

But to such a bagatelle as the likes or dislikes of a parcel of children Miss TimmsKelly paid small heed. She

had other and more important fish to fry. The engagement was to be as brief as propriety admitted; and she

was hard put to it to get her trousseau bought, furniture chosen, the affairs of her maidenhood set in order.

Through the apartments of her new home she swept like a whirlwind . . . like a whirlwind, too, overthrowing

and destroying. Painters and paperhangers were already hard at work. For much company would be seen

there after the wedding, great receptions held: as the Honourable Mrs. Turnham she would move not only in

musical circles, but in the wider world of politics. John's prospects were of the best: it was an open secret

that, for his services in the Devine ministry, he would probably receive a knighthood. And small wonder,

thought Mary, that Lizzie found the house shabby and antiquated. Nothing had been done to it since the day

Now, drastic changes were in progress. The old mahogany fourposter with its red rep curtains "Jinny's

bed," as it persisted in Mary's mind was to be replaced by one of the new French testers, with canopy and

curtains at the head only. (A rather risky innovation at John's age!) Oval plateglass mirrors in gilt frames,

with bunches of candelabra attached, were hung round the drawingroom walls: a splendid Collard and

Collard ousted the old piano; bouquets of wax flowers and fruit under glass shades topped the whatnots;

horsehair gave way to leather. And the nursery, which stood next John's own bedroom, was requisitioned by

And John? To the four eyes that watched him, with curiosity and a motherly anxiety, John's attitude came

as a surprise and a relief. He was regularly caught up in the whirl; and, for once leaving both business and

politics in the lurch, danced attendance on his affianced from morning till night. Though he still had a

haggard air, and certainly nowadays looked what he was, an elderly man, yet a wave of new life ran through

him. In his attire he grew almost as dapper as of old. It seemed as if he was determined to carry the affair off

with a high hand. He spared no expense, baulked at no alteration; and the ring that sparkled on Lizzie's plump

finger was, even in this land of showy jewellery, so costly and magnificent as to draw all eyes. Nor would he

have been human, had he not at heart felt proud of the fine figure cut by his brideelect. He was proud, and

showed it. More: when he returned from his weddingtrip to Sydney and the Blue Mountains, every one

IT was a promise of long standing that, once fairly settled in her new house, Mary should invite to stay with

her those of her friends to whom she lay under an obligation. She had plenty of room for them, plenty of

First, though, she charged herself with Emmy and the children: to get them out of the workpeople's way, and

after the wedding it was celebrated at All Saints, Brighton, and proved a very swell affair indeed, John's

four daughters following the bride up the aisle to leave Miss Julia free to give the final touches to the

house. Emmy cried bitterly when the day came to return to it: all Mary's reasoning and persuading had not

succeeded in plucking from the girl's heart the sting this third marriage of her father's had implanted there. A

great hope had been dashed in Emmy; and she went back hot with resentment against the intruder. The young

ones were easier to manage. The excitement of the wedding, new frocks, new dolls, helped them over the

break. For them, too, this would not be so complete. Miss Julia proposed to open a select school for the

Not a word had passed between Mary and Miss Julia in criticism of John's marriage. Their eyes just met for a

moment in a look of complete understanding ("Oh, these men. . . these men!"). Then with a nod and a sigh

they set resolutely to making the best of things a task, said Mahony, in which the wife had at last found

John's affairs having thus once more slipped from her grasp, Mary devoted herself to the long line of visitors

Louisa Urquhart headed the list. Louisa arrived one afternoon at Spencer Street railway station, and was

drawn from the train, her bonnet askew, her cheeks scarlet with excitement at having undertaken without

escort the fourhour journey from Ballarat. And after Louisa, who far outstayed her welcome, came Agnes

Ocock and her children and her children's nurses; came Zara and her husband, in search of expert medical

advice; Jerry and his Fanny, the latter in a delicate state of health; a couple of Ned's progeny; Amelia Grindle

and a sickly babe; came Mrs. Tilly: not to speak of other, less intimate acquaintances.

Mahony groaned. It was all very well for Mary to say that, if he wished to be alone, he had only to go into his

study and shut the door. He could and did retire there. But, like other doors, this, too, had a handle; and since

Mary could never get it into her head that to be busy among your books was to be seriously busy, the petty

interruptions he suffered were endless. Take, for example, the case of Louisa Urquhart. This was by no means

exhausted with the stitching of a rose in a drab bonnet. Louisa had lived so long in semiinvalid retirement

that she was little better than a cretin with regard to the small, practical affairs of life. She did not know how

to stamp a letter or tie up a newspaper for the post; could not buy a pair of gloves or cross a crowded street

without assistance. They had to accompany her everywhere. She also lived in a perpetual nervous flutter lest

some accident should happen at Yarangobilly while she was absent: the house catch fire, or one of the

children take a fit. "That Willy will not do a bolt with a less dismal party than she, it would be rash indeed to

assume! Of all the woebegone wetblankets . . ." Mahony was disgruntled: it spoilt his appetite for breakfast

to listen to Louisa's whining, did she learn by the morning post that one of her infants had the stomachache;

or to look on at the heroic efforts made by Mary to disperse the gloom. (The wife's tender patience with the

noodles she gathered round her invariably staggered him afresh.) Then parties must needs be given in

Louisa's honour and the honour of those who came after; the hours for meals disarranged, put backwards

Even more disturbing was the visit of Mrs. Henry which followed. Here, he could not but share Mary's

apprehensions lest something untoward should happen which might give servants or acquaintances an inkling

of how matters stood. As for poor Mary, she grew quite pale and peaked with the strain; hardly dared let

Agnes out of her sight. At dinnerparties and the best people had to be asked to meet the wife of so

important a personage as Mr. Henry her eye followed the decanters their rounds with an anxiety painful to

see. (Betweentimes, she kept the chiffonier strictly locked.) During this visit, too, the servants made

difficulties by refusing to wait on the strange nursemaids, who gave themselves airs; while, to cap all, a pair

of the rowdiest and worstbehaved children ever born romped in the passage, or trampled the flowerbeds in

the garden. No walls were thick enough to keep out their noise; any more than the fact of being in a stranger's

house could improve their manners. The walls were also powerless against Zara's highpitched, querulous

voice, or the good Ebenezer's fits of coughing, which shook the unfortunate man till his very bones seemed to

rattle. Later on, for variety, they had the shrill screaming of Amelia Grindle's sick babe (with Mary up and

down at night, preparing bottles); had Ned's children to be tamed and taught to blow their noses; pretty Fanny

tumbling into faints half a dozen times a day. Of course, there was no earthly reason why all these good

people should not make his home theirs oh dear no! If Jerry got a fortnight's holiday, what more natural

than that he should choose to spend it in his sister's comfortable, wellappointed house, rather than in his own

poky weatherboard? If Mrs. Devine wanted to take seaair ("And, really, Richard, one has to remember how

extraordinarily kind she was to us on landing"), the least one could do was to beg her to exchange Toorak for

BrightononBeach. Only the fact of John's house being but a paltry halfhour's walk distant, and the ozone

both families breathed of the same brand, saved them from having John and Lizzie quartered on them as well.

Yes, Mary's hospitality was rampageous no other word would describe it. He had given her carte blanche

and he kept to his bond; but as time went on his groans increased in volume, he was sarcastic at the expense

of "Mrs. Mahony's Benevolent Asylum," and openly counted the days till he should have his house to himself

again. A quiet evening was a thing of the past; he was naturally expected to escort the ladies to their various

entertainments. Besides, he was "only reading." What selfishness to shut yourself up with a book, when a

visitor's amusement was in question! For, as usual, Mary's solicitude was all for others. Much less

consideration was shown him personally than in the old Ballarat days. Then, he had been the breadwinner,

the wageearner, and any disturbance of his life's routine meant a corresponding disturbance in their income.

Here, with money flowing in without effort, and abundantly as it continued to dothere was no such

practical reason to respect his privacy. And so it was: "Richard, will you answer these cards for me?" "See to

the decanting of the port?" "Leave an order at the fruiterer's?" "Book seats for East Lynne, or Maritana?"

In this huggermugger fashion week after week, month after month ran away. Then, however, things seemed

to be tailing off, and he was just congratulating himself that he had bowed the last guest out, when Tilly

arrived, and back they fell into the old atmosphere of fuss and flutter. Tilly had originally stood high on

Mary's list. Then, for some reason which was not made clear to him, her visit had been postponed; and he had

Once she was there, though, it was impossible to forget Tilly, even for an hour. Her buxom, bouncing

presence filled the house. There was no escape from her strident voice, her empty, noisy laugh. The very silk

of her gowns seemed to rustle more loudly than other women's; and she had a foot like a grenadier. The truth

was, his old aversion to Tilly, and the type she represented, broke out anew directly she crossed his doorsill.

And three times a day he was forced to sit next her at meals, attend to her wants, and listen, as civilly as he

In vain did Mary harp on Tilly's sterling qualities. Before a week was out, Mahony swore he would prefer

fewer virtues and more tact. Goodness of heart could be rated too highly. Why should not quickwittedness,

and sensitiveness to your neighbour's tender places, also be counted to your credit? Why must it always be

It was at the dinnertable where, in the course of talk, the burning question of spirits and spiritphenomena

had come up; and Mary Mary, not he: it would never have occurred to him to dilate on the theme before

such as Tilly! had told of the raps and movements of furniture that were taking place at the house of a

Mrs. Phayre, a prominent member of Melbourne society. Now Tilly knew very well he did not belong to

those who dismissed such happenings with a smile and a shrug. Yet the mere mention of them was enough to

"Ha, ha! . . . ha, ha, ha! To see your furniture jumping about the room! I'd pretty soon nab the slavey you

take my word for it, Mary, it's the slavey who played such tricks on me. I'd bundle 'er off with a flea in 'er

A glance at Richard showed him black as thunder. Mary adroitly changed the subject. But afterwards she

"It's all very well, Richard, but you can't expect a commonsense person like Tilly not to be amused by that

"And pray do you mean to imply that every one who does not mock and jeer is devoid of sense?"

"Well, since you yourself bring in the 'common,' I'll quote you the dictum of a famous man. 'Commonplace

minds usually condemn everything that is beyond the scope of their understanding.'"

"How sweeping! And so conceited. But Tilly is not commonplace. In many ways, she's just as capable as her

mother was. But I don't think we ought to be discussing her. While she's our visitor."

But Mahony did not try to conciliate her. He had a further ground for annoyance. Ever since Tilly had come

to the house, that side of Mary's nature had prevailed with which he was least in sympathy. Never had she

seemed so deadly practical, and lacking in humour; so instinctively antagonistic to the imaginative and

speculative sides of life. Her attitude, for example, to the subject under discussion. At bottom, this was no

whit different from Tilly's. "That sort of thing," said as Mary said it, put her opinion of the new movement in

Out of this irritation he now demanded: "Tell me: are we never in this world to have our house to ourselves

"But, Richard, Tilly had to come! . . . after the time I stayed with her. And now she's here even though

you despise her so we've got to do all we can to make her visit a success. I should hate her to think we

"As if a porpoise could get inside a basin! How wildly you do talk! Besides you don't mean it. For if ever

Late one afternoon he came in from the garden, where he had been superintending the laying out of a new

shrubbery. Only the day before he had found, to his dismay, that a gap in the screening hedge of lauristinus

and pittosporums allowed of errandboys and nursemaids spying on a privacy he had believed absolute. The

thought was unbearable. But the change had cost him a fierce tussle with his pigheaded Scot of a gardener,

who held there were already too many shrubs about the place. Now he felt hot and tired.

As he crossed the verandah Mary came rustling out of the diningroom. She looked mysterious, but also, if

he knew his Mary, a trifle uncomfortable. "Richard! I've got a surprise for you. I want you in the

"Well, I suppose it will keep till I've washed the dust off." The drawingroom spelt visitors; and he had

In course of making a hasty toilet, however, he pricked up his ears. Down the passage came the tones of a

voice that seemed strangely familiar. And, sure enough, when he entered the room he found what he

expected: the visitor Tilly was entertaining with such noisy gusto was no other than Purdy.

Purdy sat on the circular yellowsilk ottoman, in the easiest of attitudes. With one leg stuck straight out

before him, he hugged the other to him by the knee, rocking his body backwards and forwards as he told what

was evidently a capital story to judge by his own roars of laughter and Tilly's purple face and moist eyes,

The shock of the encounter drove the semblance of a hearty greeting out of Mahony. But with this he had

exhausted himself; Purdy and he could find no points of contact; and after a few halting remarks and

awkward pauses, Purdy faced round to Tilly again and took up the broken thread of his yarn. And from now

on, both there and at the high tea to which Mary presently led them, Mahony sat silent and constrained. For

one thing, he disdained competition with Tilly in her open touting for Purdy's notice. Again, as he looked and

listened, he understood Mary's discomfort and embarrassment. On the occasion of last seeing Purdy, they had

both been giddy with excitement. Now the scales fell from his eyes. This, his former intimate and friend?

This common, shoddy little man, already potbellied and bald? whose language was that of the taproom

and the stable; who sat there bragging of the shady knowledge he had harvested in dark corners, blowing to

impress the women; one of life's failures and aware of it, and, just for this reason, cocksure, bitter, intolerant

a selflover to the nth degree. In the extravagant fables they were asked to swallow, he, Purdy, had seen

the best of everything, the worst of everything, had always been in the thick of a fray and in at the finish.

Well! one person present seemed to enjoy the tasteless performance, and that was Tilly, who hung on his lips.

She even urged him to repeat some of his tallest stories, for the benefit of Mary who had been out of the

"Oh, love, you must 'ear that yarn of the splitter and the goanna. I've laughed to burst my sides. Go on, Purd,

tell it again. It was a regular corker." And, belonging to the class of those who preindulge, Tilly heehawed

at full lungstrength. in anticipation of the coming joke. After which Mahony had to listen for the second

time to some witless anecdote, the real point of which was to show Purdy in his r�le of top dog.

Was it possible that he had ever enjoyed, or even put up with this kind of thing? Had Purdy always been a

vainglorious braggart, or had the boasting habit grown on him as he went downhill? Of course he himself had

not become more tolerant as the years went by; and he could afford to yield to his antipathies, now that no

business reasons made civility incumbent. But there was more in it than this. In earlier days a dash of the old

boyish affection had persisted, to blind him to Purdy's failings; just as the memory of their boyhood's

standing he the senior, Purdy the junior had caused Purdy to look up to him and defer to his opinion.

Now, nothing of this remained. On either side. Longsuffering, deference, affection had alike been flung on

time's scrapheap at least, during the two distasteful hours spent in Purdy's company, not even the ghosts

of such feelings stirred. Then what had brought him back? Mere tufthunting? Where, too, in the name of

Christendom had Mary fished him up, who would have been so much better left in obscurity? Had she really

But the thin smile of amusement that curled his lips at the thought faded, when he heard her pressing Purdy to

come again. And the first time he got her alone it was not till bedtime he took her soundly to task.

"Your surprise this afternoon was a surprise indeed in more ways than one. But what possessed you,

Mary, to ask him to repeat the visit? My dear, you must surely see for yourself we cannot have the eyesore he

Mary paused in the act of slipping the rings off her fingers and on the branches of her ringtree, and looked

surprised. "What, Richard? Your oldest friend?" But Mahony, versed in every lightest expression that flitted

across the candid face before him, felt the emphasis to be overdone. Like himself it was plain Mary had

So he swallowed a caustic rejoinder, and said dryly: "I know your intentions were of the best. But . . . well,

frankly, my dear, I think it's bad enough if you fill the house with your old friends."

He was right. Her discomfiture showed in the way she now flared up. "Fill the house? . . . with only one

person here at a time, and never more than two? But since you put it that way, Richard I think it's

"Oh, I've no patience with such a selfish standpoint. Whatever would be the good of all this I mean the

nice house, and our not needing to worry about expense if we didn't ask other people to share it with us?"

"Well, not exactly. But why start to grumble now, when it's a question of your best friend?"

At the repetition his patience failed him. "Best friend! Oldest friend! Good heavens, Mary! do think what you

are saying. How can one continue to be friends with a person one never sees or hears of? Surely the word

implies somebody with whom one has at least half an idea in common? People don't stand still in this world.

They're always growing and changing up or down or off at a tangent. Panta rei is the eternal truth: semper

idem the lie we long to see confirmed. And to hug a sentimental memory of what a mortal once was to you,

and go on trying to bolster up an intimacy on the strength of it why, that's to drag a dead carcase behind

you, which impedes your own progress. No, the real friend is one you pick up at certain points in your

life, whose way runs along with yours for a time. A time only. A milestone on your passage no more.

"Milestones? Why not tombstones while you're about it?" cried Mary hotly, repudiating a theory that seemed

to her wholly perverse "Of course, you're able to use words I don't understand; but I say, once a friend,

always a friend. I know I'd be sorry to forget anyone I had ever liked even if I didn't find much to talk to

them about. But you must always have your own ideas. I declare you're going on now about people just as

"Yes, places and people one as the other. Let me face forward not back. But to return to the matter in

hand: I don't mind telling you I'd gladly pay our visitor of this afternoon to stop away . . . and drink his tea

"I never heard such a thing!" Then, however, another thought struck her. "You're not letting that silly old

Mahony laughed out loud. "Good Lord, no! The grass has been green over that for what seems like half a

"Tch!" On the verge of letting his temper get away with him, Mahony pulled up. "Well, my dear. . . well,

perhaps you're not altogether wrong. I'll put it even more plainly though. Mary, it's because he spoke and

looked like what I veritably believe him to be: an ostler in some stable. Horsey checks, dirty nails, sham

brilliants; and a mind and tongue to match. No, I stick to what I've said: I'd offer him a tenpound note to

"Come, do I need to mix with ostlers at my time of life? . . . and in my present position. It's not my fault that

"No, but all the more reason not to turn your back on somebody who hasn't had your luck."

"I deny that I'm a snob. I'd invite my butcher or my baker to the house any day, so long as he had decent

"My dear Richard, you only say that because you know you'll never have to! And if you did, you wouldn't

like them a bit better than you do Purdy. But I'm sure I sometimes don't know what's coming over you. You

used to be such a stickler for remembering old friends and old kindnesses, and hadn't bad enough to say about

people who didn't. I believe it was the going home that changed you. Yet when you were in England, how

you railed at people there for letting themselves be influenced by a person's outside how he ate peas, or

"England had nothing whatever to do with it. But it was a very different thing in Ballarat, Mary, where my

practice brought me up against all sorts of people to whom I was forced to be civil. Now, there's no such

obligation. And so I decline, once and for all, to exhibit the specimen we saw today to our social circle. If

you're absolutely bent on befriending him and I know doing good is, to you, the temptation strong drink is

to others although in my opinion, my dear, you'll end by overdoing it: you've not looked yourself for

weeks past. If you must have Purdy here, kindly let it be when no one else is present, and if possible when I,

too, am out of the way. What you're to say about me? Anything you like. He won't miss me so long as your

friend Tilly is at hand to drink in his words. You certainly hit the bull'seye this time, my dear, in providing

her with entertainment. Purdy's egregious lying was pabulum after her own heart."

With which Richard slung a towel round his neck and retired to the bathroom, leaving Mary to the reflection

that, if ever there was a person who knew how to complicate the doing of a simple kindness, it was Richard.

Here he went, detesting Tilly with all his old fervour and dead set from the start against Purdy and his coming

to the house. (It was true Purdy had got rather loud and bumptious; but a sensible woman like Tilly might be

trusted soon to knock the nonsense out of him.) Meanwhile she, Mary, had somehow to propitiate all three;

and in particular to hinder Richard from showing what he felt. For if the match came off, Purdy would

become a rich and important personage to whom every door would open. And then Richard, too, would come

round would have to. If, that was, she could meanwhile contrive to keep him from making lifelong

"My dear! the minute I set eyes on 'er, I knew she was a fraud. And I thinks to myself: 'Just you wait, milady,

till the lights go out, and I'll cook your goose for you!' Well, sure enough, there we all sat 'andinhand in the

dark, like a party of kids playing 'unttheslipper. And byandby one and another squeals: 'I'm touched!'

What do I do, Mary? Why, I gradually work the hand I'm 'olding in me right, closer to me left, till I'd got

them joined and me right 'and free. (It's as easy as Punch if you know 'ow to do it.) And when the man next

me oh, 'e was a solemn old josser! when 'e said in a voice that seemed to come from 'is boots: 'The

spirits 'ave deigned to touch me' as if 'e'd said: 'God Almighty 'as arrived and is present!' I made one

grab, and got 'old of now what do you think? I'm danged if it wasn't 'er false chignon I found in my hand. I

thought she was going to give me the slip then, after all: she wriggled like an eel. But I held on like grim

death and, luckily for me, she'd a few 'airs left still clinging to her cranium. She squeals like a pig. 'Up with

the lights,' says I; ' I've got 'er!' 'Turn up the lights if you dare,' cries she: 'it'll kill me.' Over goes a chair in the

scrimmage, and then they did turn 'em up, and there was she squirming on the floor, bald like an egg, with I

don't know how many false gloves and feathers and things pinned on to 'er body!"

Tilly sat by the fire in Mary's bedroom, her black silk skirts turned back from the blaze. She was in high

feather, exhilarated by her own acumen as by the smartness with which she had conducted the exposure.

Opposite her Mary, her head tied up in red flannel, crippled by the heavy cold and the faceache that had

confined her to the house, listened with a sinking heart. It was all very well for Tilly to preen herself on what

she had done: Richard would see it in a very different light. He had gone straight to his study on entering; and

hurrying out in her dressinggown to learn what had brought the two of them home so early, Mary had

caught a glimpse of his face. It was enough. When Richard looked like that, all was over. His hatred of a

It was most discouraging. For a fortnight past she had done everything a friend could do, to advance Tilly's

suit; plotting and planning, always with an anxious ear to the studydoor, in a twitter lest Richard should

suddenly come out and complain about the noise. For the happy couple, to whom she had given up the

drawingroom, conversed in tones that were audible throughout the house: a louder courtship Mary had

never heard; it seemed to consist chiefly of comic stories, divided one from the next by bursts of laughter.

Personally she thought the signs and portents would not be really favourable till the pair grew quieter: every

wooing she had assisted at had been punctuated by long, long silences, in which the listener puzzled his

brains to imagine what the lovers could be doing. However, Tilly seemed satisfied. After an afternoon of this

kind she went into the seventh heaven, and leaning on Mary's neck shed tears of joy: it was a case of

middleaged lovesickness and no mistake! True, she also knew moments of uncertainty, when things seemed

to hang fire, under the influence of which she would vehemently declare: "Upon my soul, Mary love, if he

doesn't, I shall! I feel it in my bones." A state of mind which alarmed Mary and made her exclaim: "Oh no,

don't, Tilly! don't do that. I'm sure you'd regret it. You know, later on he might cast it up at you."

And now Tilly had probably spoilt everything, by her hasty, illconsidered action.

Fortunately for her she didn't realise how deeply she had sinned; though even she could see that Richard was

angry. "Of course, love, the doctor's in a bit of a taking. I couldn't get a word out of 'im all the way 'ome.

Lor', Mary, what geese men are, to be sure!. . . even the best of 'em. Not to speak of the cleverest. To see all

those learned old mopokes sitting there tonight, solemn as hens on eggs . . . it was enough to make a cat

laugh. But even if 'e does bear me a bit of a grudge, it can't be helped. I'm not a one, love, to sit by and see a

cheat and keep my mouth shut. A fraud's a fraud, and even if it's the Queen 'erself."

"Of course it is. I feel just the same as you. It makes my blood boil to watch Richard, with all his brains,

letting himself be duped by some dishonest creature who only wants to make money out of him. But ... when

he once gets an idea in his head . . . . And he's not a bit grateful for having his eyes opened."

Grateful, indeed! When, after an hour's solitude which might really have been expected to cool him down, he

came into the bedroom, his very first words were: "Either that woman leaves the house, or I go myself!"

For all Mary's firm resolve to act as peacemaker, this was more than she could swallow. "Richard, don't be so

"Tilly's my friend, and I'm not going to have her insulted." Mary's tone was as dogged as his own.

"No! but she is at liberty to insult mine . . . and make me a laughingstock into the bargain. Such a

"However did it happen that you held a seance? The invitation only said cards and music. I'd have kept her at

"I wish to God you had! You talk of decency? You need hardly worry, I think, in the case of a person who

has so few decent feelings of her own. If you could have heard her! 'I got 'er! Up with the gas! I'm 'olding 'er

by 'er false 'air!'" Mahony gave the imitation with extravagant emphasis. "I leave it to you to imagine

the rest. That voice . . . the scattered aitches . . . the gauche and vulgar manner . . . the medium weeping and

protesting . . . your friend parleying and exclaiming at the top of her lungs, too glorying in what she

had done as if it was something to be proud of, and blind as a bat to the thunderglances that were being

thrown at her . . . no! I shall never forget it. She has rendered me impossible in a house where till now I

The exaggeration of this statement nettled Mary. She clicked her tongue. "Oh, don't be so silly! Surely you

can write and explain? Mrs. Phayre will understand . . . that you had nothing to do with it."

"Who am I that I should have to explain and apologise? and for the behaviour of a person she did us the

"But considering the woman was a fraud? Tilly vows she had all sorts of contrivances pinned to her body."

"There you go! Ready, as usual, to believe any one rather than me! She was no more a fraud than I am. She

came to us well attested by circles of the highest standing. Yet in spite of this, an ignorant outsider, who is

present at a sitting for the first time in her life, has the insolence to set herself up as a judge. Mary! I've

put up with the job lot you call your friends for more than a twelvemonth. But this is the last straw. Out she

But this flicked Mary on the raw. "You seem to forget some of the job lot were my own relations."

"Oh, now get touchy, do! You know very well what I mean. But enough's enough. I can stand no more."

"You talk as if you were the sole person to be considered. As usual, think of nobody but yourself."

"Ha! I like that," cried Mahony, exasperated. "I think I'm possessed of the patience of Job, if you ask me. For

"No, you prefer these wretched mediums and the silly people who are taken in by them. I wish spiritualism

"I do. I know nearly every time we go out now, I have to sit by and watch you letting yourself be humbugged.

And then I'm not to open my mouth, or say what I see, or have any opinion of my own."

"I think it's abominable the way you sneer at Tilly! But if you do it just to get her out of the house, you're on

the wrong tack. She's not going just now, and that's all about it. Any one but you would understand what's

happening. But you're so taken up with yourself that you never see a thing not if it's under your very

"Pray what do you mean by that? What is happening?" Pierced by a sudden suspicion Mahony swung round

and faced her. "Good Lord, Mary!". . . his voice trailed off in a kind of incredulous disgust. "Good Lord! You

don't want to tell me you're trying to bolster up a match between this woman and . . . and Purdy?"

Mahony's irritation burst its bounds. "Well, upon my soul! . .. well, of all the monstrous pieces of folly!"

After which he broke off, to throw in caustically: "Of course if it comes to that, I 'll allow they're well

matched. . . in manners and appearance. But the fellow's an incorrigible waster. He'll make ducks and drakes

of old Ocock's hardearned pile. Besides, has he shown the least desire for matrimony? Are you not lending

yourself to a vulgar intrigue on the woman's part? If so, let me tell you that it's beneath your dignity your

dignity as my wife and I for one decline to permit anything so offensive to go on under my roof. Not to

"No, really, Richard! this is too much," cried Mary, and bounced up from her seat. "For goodness sake, let me

manage my own affairs! To hear you talk, any one would think I was still a child, to be told what I may and

mayn't do instead of a middleaged woman. I'm quite able to judge for myself; yes! and take the

consequences, too. But you blow me up just as if I wasn't a person for myself at all, but only your wife.

Besides, I think you might show a little confidence in me. I shan't disgrace you, even if I am fool enough to

bring two people together again who were once so fond of each other. Which you seem to have quite

forgotten. Though your own common sense might tell you. Tilly's alone in the world, and has more money

than she knows what to do with. And he has none. I think you can safely leave it to her to look after her own

interests. She's a good deal sharper than any of us, you included. And Purdy, too. You sneer at him for an

ostler and a ne'erdowell. He's nothing of the sort. For six months now he's worked hard as a traveller in

jewellery." ("Ha! . . . that explains the sham diamonds, the rings, the breastpins.") "There you go! . . .

sneering again. And here am I, struggling and striving to keep the peace between you, till I don't know

whether I'm standing on my head or my heels. And as far as you're concerned, it's not the least bit of good. I

think you grow more selfish and perverse day by day. You ought to have lived on a desert island, all by

yourself. Oh, I'm tired . . . sick and tired . . . of it and of everything!" and having said her say, passionately

Mahony's anger was laid on the instant. "Why, my dear! . . . why, Mary . . . what's all this about? Come,

come, love!" as her sobs increased in violence "this will never do. There's nothing to upset yourself

over. The fact is, as you say, you're tired out. We shall be having you ill in earnest if this goes on. And small

wonder, I'm sure. I declare, as soon as you're rid of your cold I shall shut this place up and take you away

"I don't want to go to Sydney. I only want to be left alone, and not have my friends insulted and turned out of

"Good God, wife! . . . surely you can give me credit for some small degree of tact? But now, enough. You lie

But this was not the case. Mary coughed and tossed, and went from hot to cold and cold to hot, for the greater

part of the night. In the morning her head felt a ton weight on the pillow. It was no good chafing; in bed she

had to stay. Mahony and Tilly faced each other in glum silence across the length of the breakfasttable.

The next few days bringing no improvement, Tilly had the good sense to pack her trunks and return to

Ballarat. And it was one crumb of comfort to Mary that, thanks to her indisposition, this departure was

Leaning over the bed for a farewell embrace, Tilly answered her friend's hoarse whisper with a shake of the

head. "But don't you bother, love. My dear, you'll see what you do see! I'm no chicken, Mary, nor any

mealymouthed schoolgirl to lose me chance for want of opening me mouth. But whatever happens, I'll never

forget how you tried to pull it off for me, old girl never! . . . not so long as I live."

And now, the nervous strain she had been under of lying listening for sounds of strife and warfare this

removed, Mary was left at peace in her dimitywhite bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of feeling

thoroughly out of sorts. Richard found plenty to say in admonition, as the days went by and she continued

low and languid, unable to shake off what seemed but a heavy cold. He also laid down many a stringent rule

When the truth dawned on them that Mary's illness could be ascribed to a purely natural cause, and that, at

long last, she was to bear a child, husband and wife faced the fact as diversely as they now faced all vital

issues. In Mahony's feelings, bewilderment and dismay had the upper hand. For though, at one time, Mary's

childlessness had been a real grief to him, so many years had passed since then that he had long ceased either

to hope or to regret. And when you had bowed thus to the inevitable, and arranged your life accordingly, it

was disquieting, to say the least of it, to see your careful structure turned upside down. Rudely disquieting.

And this sense of inexpediency persisted long after Mary was up and about again, her old blithe self, and the

two of them had more or less familiarised themselves with the idea of the drastic change that lay in store for

them. The truth was: he no longer wished for children. One needed to be younger than he, still in the early

years of married life, to accept their coming unconcernedly. (Nor was he enough of a selflover to crave to

see himself reduplicated, and thus assured of an earthly immortality.) He felt old; was old: too late, now, to

conjure up any of the dreams that belonged by rights to the coming of a child. His chief sensation was one of

fear: he shrank from the responsibility that was being thrust upon him. A new soul to guide, and shield, and

make fit for life! . . . when he himself was so unsure. How establish the links that should bind it to the world

around it? as to the world unseen. How explain evil? . . . and sin? . . . the doctrine of reward and

punishment? and reconcile these with the idea of a tender, allpowerful Creator. For though one might

indulge in theory and speculation for one's own edification, one dare not risk them on a child. Another more

selfish point of view was that he looked forward with real apprehension to the upheaval of his little world: the

inroads on, the destruction of that peace and solitude with which he had fallen so deeply in love.

A bright side to the affair was that they were now, for the first time in their united lives, really able to afford

the outlay involved. They could make comfortable, even extravagant preparation for the new arrival; and only

too gladly did he bid Mary spend what she chose. For though his own pleasure in the prospect of fatherhood

was severely tempered, it warmed his heart to see her joy. "Radiant" was the only word that described Mary.

No irksome thoughts of responsibility bore her down. She would have laughed at the notion in regard to a

child of her own. But then, there never was less of a doubter than Mary: no hypercritical brooding over man's

relation to God, or God's to the world, had ever robbed her of an hour's sleep. She accepted things as they

were with a kind of simple, untroubled faith. Or was it perhaps just the reverse the absence of any

religious spirit? Sometimes he half believed it believed there existed in Mary more than a dash of the

pagan. Well, however that might be, the coming of a babe would set the crown on a life which, in spite of its

happiness, had so far lacked the supreme gift. For women's arms, like their bodies, were built to cradle and

Mary wrinkled her brow over none but the most practical considerations. Enough to occupy her was the

burning question which rooms to take for nurseries, in a house where all rooms had long ago had their use

Mahony laughed at her worried air. "Why, build 'em, my dear, and as many as you choose! I'll not grudge the

But this was just one of Richard's harebrained schemes. The house was amply big enough as it stood; and any

additions would spoil its shape. Time enough, too, to think of extra accommodation when all was happily

over. Thus Mary: deciding eventually that the guestrooms were those that must be sacrificed: they were large,

cool, airy; and once the baby was there, she would have scant leisure for entertaining. At least, in the

beginning. And with this resolution, which was at once put into effect, Mary's overdone and tiresome

Next came the question of furnishing. And here Richard proved to have ultraqueer notions about what

would be good for a child his child and what wouldn't. The nurse was not even to share a room with it

and this, when most nurses slept with their charges in the same bed! Then he tabooed carpets as

dusttraps, so that there was no question of just covering the floor with a good Brussels; and curtains must be

of thinnest muslin not rep. In the end Mary had the floors laid in polished wood, on which were spread

loose strips of bamboo matting; and dark green sunblinds were affixed to the outsides of the windows. The

walls were distempered a light blue. In place of the usual heavy mahogany the furniture was of a simple style,

and painted white. The little crib it had to be made to order, for Richard would have none of the prevalent

rockingcradles, which, he declared, had rocked many a babe into convulsions was white as well. When

all was finished the effect was quite fairylike, and so novel that tales of the nurseries got abroad, and visitors

invariably asked before leaving if they might be allowed a peep at them. Meanwhile, Mahony did his share

by hunting up pictures on which the infant eye might rest with pleasure. He also bought toys; and would

arrive home with his pocket bulging. Mary bore with him as long as he confined his purchases to woolly balls

and rag dolls. But when it came to his ordering in an expensive rockinghorse, she put her foot down.

"Really, Richard! Just suppose anything.. . I mean it will be more than time enough for things like these a

"Oh, the doctor expects his kid to come into the world able to walk and talk . . . like a foal or a calf. Never

And as Tilly she had come down on her own initiative, solely to be near Mary over her confinement as

she drove back to the hotel at which she was putting up, she hummed the popular refrain:

For besides making a donkey of himself over his purchases, Mahony was haunted, now the end drew nigh, by

a memory, by the fear of another disappointment. He hardly trusted Mary out of his sight; hardly let her put

one foot before another, "As jumpy as a Persian cat! You'd never think 'e'd 'elped hundreds of brats into

Mary sat in a rockingchair on the shady side of the verandah, and waved a palmleaf fan to keep the flies

off. More often she was surrounded by yards of muslin, real India muslin, which she fashioned into robes and

petticoats, on which she frilled and tucked and embroidered, sewing every stitch by hand.

"A regular trousseau!" said Tilly; and enviously fingered the piles of gossamer garments.

On the ordeal that lay before her, Mary herself was not given to brooding: for one thing, she was much

stronger than she had been as a girl. And the first discomforts of her state over, her health was well

maintained. But when December, with its livid heat, had slipped into the greater heats of January and her time

came, she gave birth as hardly as on that first occasion long years ago; all but paying with her own for the

new life she was bringing into the world. Wellknown specialists, hastily summoned, performed a critical

operation, Mahony's trust in his own skill deserting him as usual where Mary was in question. And though

the operation was successful and the child born alive, days of acute anxiety followed before it was certain that

Mary would pull through. Tilly and Mahony buried the hatchet in the long hours they spent together in that

darkened bedchamber, where Mahony moved a pale, distraught shadow, and Tilly sat weeping silently, her

handkerchief to her eyes. In the diningroom John and Jerry strayed aimlessly to and fro among the furniture;

and outsiders like Mrs. Devine would drive up early, and remain sitting in their carriages to hear the latest

bulletin. In the end Mary's sound constitution triumphed, and she was gradually won back to life; but over a

week passed before she even asked to see her child. Then, in sudden impatience, she tried to raise herself on

her elbow a movement that sent Tilly and the nurse flying to lay her flat again. Tilly it was who, going to

the crib, carried to her on a pillow one of the tiniest babies ever seen: a waxen doll, with black hair an inch

It was a boy. At his baptism, where John, Jerry and Lizzie stood sponsors, he received the name of Cuthbert

THESE unlookedfor children the following year twin girls were born, thus rounding off a trio came

too late to form the bond between their parents they might once have done. For that, the attitudes adopted

towards them by father and mother, themselves now branched so far apart, were too dissimilar. In Mahony's

case, once his children were there in the flesh before him, all his puny fears of personal upset and mental

pother fell away. He had only to feel tiny soft fingers straying over his face, to become the tenderest of

fathers, loving his babies wholeheartedly. Now he feared only for them, in their frailty and helplessness. Did

he wake in the night and think he heard a cry, he was out of bed in an instant; and the nurse, entering from the

next room to make sure of her charges, would find her master there before her a tall, dressinggowned

figure, shading a candle with his hand. Often, too, when wakeful, he would rise and steal into the

nightnursery to take a peep at his little ones, lying relaxed in sleep. Yes, he was passionately solicitous for

them and not for their bodily health alone. He would have wished to shield their little plastic minds from

all impressions that might pain or harm; have had them look only at beautiful and pleasant things, hear soft

voices and kind words; on no child of his might hand be laid in anger. The result was that the children, dimly

conscious of his perpetual uneasiness, were rendered uneasy by it in their turn, and, for all the deep affection

Instead, they sunned themselves in their mother's love, which knew nothing of fears or apprehensions. Mary

laughed at Richard's exaggerated anxiety; though she rejoiced to see him so fond. A selfcentred person like

To her they were all in all; and on them she lavished that great hoard of motherlove which, till now, she had

spent on the world at large. Had they been born shortly after her marriage, she, who was then little more than

a child herself, would have been a child along with them; and the four would have grown up together in a

delightful intimacy. Of this there was now no question. Coming when they did, the children stood to her only

for possessions her most precious possessions but still, something absolutely her own, to do with just

as she thought good. Through them, too, she believed she would some day gratify those ambitions which,

where Richard was concerned, had proved so stark a failure. He had had no desire to walk the high paths she

had mapped out for him. Her children would and should. In the meantime, however, ambition lay fallow

in love; and it was to their mother the babies ran with their pains and pleasures, their discoveries and

attainments. She alone gave them that sense of warmth and security in which very young things thrive.

Their devotion to her was the one feature the three had in common. The twins they soon earned the

nickname of "the Dumplings" were mere rolypoly bundles of good nature and jollity, who rarely cried,

and were as seldom ill as naughty. Mary boasted: the most docile children in the world. Passionately attached

to each other said Mahony, it was as though a single soul had been divided between two bodies they

toddled through babyhood hand in hand; faithfully sharing all good things that came their way; sleeping in

the same crib, face to face, each with an arm flung protectively about the other's neck. To look at they were as

like as two peas, blueeyed, fairhaired, dimpled, lovely to handle in their baby plumpness, and the most

satisfying of armfuls. Their development, too, kept equal pace they walked late, owing to the burden of their

little rotundities and long remained content with inarticulate sounds for speech.

The boy was of quite another fibre: as hard to manage as they were easy; as quick as they were slow. Tilly

early said of him: "Lor', Mary! the doctor 'imself in frocks and petticoats." But this referred chiefly to little

physical tricks and similarities: a certain faddiness about his food, his clothes, his belongings. A naughty

child he was not at first. He, too, began life as a placid infant, who slept well, did not cry, and accepted

philosophically the bottle substitute that was put to his lips. This meant that, in spite of his midgetsize at

birth, he was sound and healthy in a fragile, wiry way. He continued small, but was neatly formed. To his

mother's colouring he added his father's straight features; and even in babyhood had the latter's trick of

carrying his head well back, and a little to one side. He walked before he was a year old, talked soon after;

and, to his parents' pride, was able to pick out a given letter from a playalphabet before he either walked or

His precocity showed itself in other ways as well. For a year and a quarter he was King of the House, the

pivot of his little world, sole occupant of his mother's knee. Then came the sudden apparition of his sisters. In

the beginning, Cuffy thus he named himself did not pay much heed to this pair of animated dolls, who

moved their legs and arms when bathed, and rode out in a carriage beside his, but for the most part lay asleep

and negligible. Only gradually did it dawn on him that his privileges were being invaded; that not only,

indeed, was his reign as sole ruler at an end, but that the greater favours were falling to the newcomers' share.

And one day the full knowledge of what had happened burst through, with disastrous results, Cuffy being

then something over two years old. Dressed for driving Mary entered the nursery; and Cuffy clamoured to be

But the nurses appearing at this moment with the babies, all warm and fragrant from their afternoon nap,

Mary was not able to resist holding out her arms for them. She even lingered, fondling them, after the

Cuffy had docilely retreated to a corner, where he played with a stuff elephant. But on seeing this seeing

his mother, who had been too busy for him, petting the twins who had not even asked to be nursed at this

he planted himself before her and regarded her with his solemn black eyes. ("I do declare, Master Cuffy

seems to look right through you and out behind, when he stares so," was a saying of Nannan's.)

To her amazement, instead of putting up his face for a kiss, Cuffy darted at her what she described to Richard

as "a dreadfully naughty look," and going over to his rockinghorse, which, though he was not yet allowed to

mount it, was his dearest treasure, started to beat it with both hands, and with such force that the patient

Shocked at this fit of temper, Nannan and Mary exclaimed in chorus: "Master Cuffy! Well, I never did! Such

"Cuffy! What are you doing? If you are so naughty, Mamma will never take you on her knee again."

The child's back being towards her, she did not see how at these words the little face flushed crimson, the

eyes grew round with alarm. Cuffy at once left off hitting the horse; just stood stockstill, as if letting what

his mother had said sink in. But he did not turn and come to her. Mary told Richard of the incident as she

buttoned her gloves. And Richard had Cuffy brought to him. Laying aside his book he lifted the child to his

"But, just because it is Cuffy's Cuffy's very own he must be kind . . . all the kinder. . . to it. Never

wreak your temper or your vengeance, my little son, on a person or thing that is in your power. It's

ungenerous. And I want my Cuffy to grow up into a good, kind man. As careful of the feelings of others as he

Something in his father's voice grave, measured, tender got at the baby, though the words went over

his head. And then Mahony saw what he long remembered: a fight for selfcontrol extraordinary in one so

young. The black eyes filled; the little mouth twitched and trembled. But the child swallowed hard in an

attempt to keep back his tears. And when at last they broke through, he turned and hid his face against his

father's coat. Not, Mahony felt sure, seeking there either comfort or sympathy. Merely that his distress might

be unobserved. Taking in his own the two little hands, which were locked in each other, Mahony drew them

apart. Both palms were red and sorelooking, and no doubt still tingled hotly. The child had hurt himself

But Cuffy's tears soon dried. After a very few seconds he raised his face, and, this having been patted with his

father's handkerchief, slid to the floor and trotted back to the nursery. And then, said Nannan, what a todo

there was! Master Cuffy dragged his little chair up beside the horse, climbed on the chair and put his arms

round the animal's neck, talking to it for all the world as if it was a live creature and could talk back.

"Wos 'oo 'urt, dea' 'orsey? poor 'ickle 'orsey! Cuffy didn't mean to. Wot 'oo say, 'orsey? 'Orsey 'oves Cuffy

doublemuch? Dea' 'orsey! Cuffy 'oves 'orsey, too much more better zan Effalunt."

And having deposited horsey's rival upsidedown in a dark cupboard, he begged a lump of sugar from Eliza

the undernurse, and rammed it in between the steed's bloodred jaws; where it remained, until a trail of

To Mary, Mahony said: "If I were you, my dear, I should be careful to distribute my favours equally. Don't

let the little fellow feel that his nose has been put out of joint. He's jealous that's all."

"Jealous? Of his own sisters? Oh, Richard! . . . I don't think that augurs very well for him. And surely he

For almost the first time in his knowledge of her, Mahony seemed to sense a streak of hardness in Mary; for

the first time she did not excuse a wrongdoer with a loving word. And this her own child!

"He's but a baby himself. Don't ask too much of him," he soothed her. And added: "Of course, I only give you

my idea. Do as you think best." For Mary had proved as capable as a mother as at everything else: she

solved problems by sheer intuition, where he would have fretted and fumbled. Even the children's early

religious training had, when the time came, fallen to her. Here again she had no bothersome theories: just the

simplest practice. The question whether Cuffy and his sisters should be taught to pray or not to pray, to

invoke a personal or an impersonal Deity, never entered her head. As soon as they could lisp their first

syllables, they knelt night and morning at her knee to repeat their "Gentle Jesus!" and "Jesus, tender

Shepherd!" And as long as the great First Cause was set forth in this loving and protective guise, Mahony saw

no reason to interfere. He contented himself with forbidding the name of God ever to be used as a threat, or in

connection with punishment: the children were taught that the worst that could befall a sinner was a

temporary withdrawal of God's love. Nor would he have the Thou God seest me! fallacy this reduction of

the Omnipotent and Eternal to the level of spyer and peeper instilled into their young minds; while such a

purely human invention as the Devil "That scapegoat on which man piles the blame for the lapses in his

These few simple rules laid down, he retired into the background. The comfortable knowledge that his

Until now it had been plain sailing. Now . . . well, Mary invariably dated the beginning of the real trouble

with Cuffy from the day on which he flew into such a naughty passion with his horse. Exactly an easy child

to manage he had never been; he was too fanciful for that. There was no need for Richard to fuss and fidget

about keeping ugly things from him. Cuffy himself would have none of them. Before he was a twelvemonth

old, did he, in looking at his "Queen of Hearts" storybook, draw near the picture of the thieving knave, you

saw his eyes getting bigger and bigger. And if he could not contrive, with his baby hands, to turn two pages at

once and nobody else might do it for him he would avert his eyes altogether, or lay his palm flat over

the wretch's ugly face. The Dor� illustrations to his big fairybook had a kind of horrid fascination for him.

There he would sit staring at these dense and gloomy forests, these ruined, webhung castles surrounded by

their stagnant moats and then, when bedtime came, he turned frightened. It was of no use trying to shame

him with: "A great boy like you! Why, the Dumplings aren't a bit afraid." Or cheerily assuring him: "There

are no such things, darling, as witches and giants. They're only made up to amuse little children."

Cuffy knew better when the lamp was out and Nannan had left the nursery. Then the picture he feared

most: Hopo'myThumb, a creature in petticoats, no bigger than himself, leading a long string of brothers

and sisters into a forest black as ink: this picture would rise up before him. Not only so, but he himself must

join the tail, fall in after Hopo' and follow into that dreadful wood, where the ogre lived. Since he could not

The eldest, and a boy, to be such a baby! Mary felt quite abashed for Cuffy, and lost no chance of poking fun

at his fears. But it did not help; and eventually she saw that she must leave it to time to drive this nonsense

out of him. There were other, more actively disturbing traits in his nature, on which time might have the

opposite effect. For example, for such a little child he was far too close and reserved; he kept his thoughts and

feelings buttoned up inside himself. He had a passionate temper "Cuffy's temper" it was called, as though

of a special brand that belonged to him alone but he did not often give it play. Was he hurt or offended or

angry, he would retire to a corner, and stay there by himself. If he had to cry, he cried in a corner; he did not

want to be petted or comforted; and he would also in nine cases out of ten not say Richard declared would

perhaps not be able to say why he cried. Mary saw him growing up very unfrank and secretive; which, to

Again, it wormed in her that he was not a friendly or a trusting child one of those who indiscriminately

hold out their arms, or present a cheek. Cuffy would not go to strangers or always give his kiss when bidden.

Nor was he generous; he did not willingly share his toys, or his picturebooks, or his lollipops. The things

that belonged to him belonged absolutely. Really, he seemed to look upon them as bits of himself, and hence

not to be parted with. His favourite animals horse and elephant might be touched by no one. Was there

a children's party in the nursery special playthings had to be provided, or only those used that were the

Dumplings' property. To Mary, bound by but gossamer threads to all things material, her little son's attitude

was something of a mystery; and many a time did she strive with him over the head of it. His inability to

share with others stood to her for sheer selfishness. She trembled, too, lest the Dumplings should learn to

copy him in this, and cease to be the openhearted, openhanded little mortals they were. For they looked up

to Cuffy with adoring eyes Cuffy who walked while they still drove; was present at dessert in the evening,

while they were put to bed; wore knickerbockers instead of skirts. But, try as she might, by teaching and

example, she could not influence the boy, let alone master him; while the usual nursery proceeding of making

a child's naughty fit end with an expression of contrition shattered on Cuffy's obstinacy. If he did not feel

sorry, he would not say he was; and in the battle royal that ensued he generally came off victor. The fact was,

in the darkeyed mite she had now to deal with, Mary ran up against more than a dash of her own resolute

"He's got a shocking will of his own. And what troubles me, Richard, is, if he's as set as all this when he's not

"Set? Nonsense, my dear! The child's got character. Give it scope to expand. Try to influence him and work

"It's all very well for you. You don't have to deal with him a dozen times a day. I must say, I sometimes think

you might help a little more than you do." It was a sore point with Mary that Richard would not rise to his

responsibilities as a father, but went on leading the life of a bookworm and a recluse. "Especially as the child

But Mahony was not to be bought. "My dear, you've the knack and I haven't. Now don't worry. As long as

Honest? . . . truthful? That went without saying! It was only that Mary wanted her firstborn to be so much

more: sunny, lovable, transparent, brave and a hundred other things besides. He was Nurse's darling

though. You had only, said Nannan, to beware of knocking up against any of his funny little fads, such as

undressing him before people, or asking him to eat with any but his own silver fork and spoon.

"What Master Cuffy needs is just a bit of managing. I can twist him round my little finger." But it did not

tally with Mary's ideas that a child of that age should have to be "managed" at all.

Turning from these traits in her son of which she could not approve, she dwelt with pleasure on his marked

quickness and cleverness. Cuffy had sure fingers and a retentive memory. At an early age he could catch a

ball and trundle a hoop; could say his prayers without prompting; learn nursery rhymes at a single hearing;

could eat nicely, keep himself clean, button up those of his buttons which were within reach: in short do

And in addition he had one genuine talent. For some reason or other "a throwback to his grandmother,"

supposed Mahony Cuffy had been dowered with a natural gift for music. He learnt tunes more easily than

he learnt his letters; could hum "Rock of Ages" and "Sun of my Soul" before he uttered a word. His ear was

extraordinarily good, his little voice sweet and true. And knowing that Mary's intonation was but faulty, that

of the nursery faultier still, Mahony here put in his single spoke in Cuffy's education. He had the boy brought

to his dressingroom of a morning; and there, while he dressed, Cuffy with his elephant would sit perched on

a corner of the table, singing songs old and new. Together Mahony and his son practised "Oft in the Stilly

Night" and "The Land o' the Leal," and with such success that, was there company to dinner, Cuffy in his best

velvet tunic would be stood on a chair at dessert, to perform to the guests. And as he gave forth, in baby

the ladies uttered rapturous exclamations; while the gentlemen, mostly without a note of music in them,

declared: "'Pon my word, very remarkable, very remarkable indeed!" And Aunt Lizzie, from whom Cuffy

had picked up this song by ear, hailed him as an infant prodigy, and painted for him a future that made Mary's

MRS. MARRINER, the youngish widow whose acquaintance Mary had made while visiting on the

Urquharts' station, was a person of character. In the matter of dress, for example, she defied the prevailing

fashion; wore her light brown hair swept straight back from her brow (which was classic), and, employing

neither net nor comb, twisted it in a Grecian knot on the nape of her neck. She also eschewed crinoline, and

"Out and away too conspicuous!" was Mahony's verdict. "The woman must want people to stare at her.

Though I will say, Mary, it's something of a treat to behold the natural female figure again, after the unnatural

For this he had to admit: there was nothing unfeminine or forbidding about the lady. She was as handsome as

she was striking. A full eye, a Grecian nose, a slim waist: such were her charms; to say nothing of a white,

dimpled hand, and a wellturned ankle. And yet every one who knew her agreed that she captivated less by

She was just as popular with her own as with the sterner sex. Which said a good deal; for, wherever she went,

she was run after by "the gentlemen." And small wonder, thought Mary. For Gracey was up in any subject,

Richard said: "It's not the least piquant thing about her that after she has been holding forth, supremely well,

on one of those learned themes ladies as a rule fight shy of, she will suddenly lapse into some delightful

feminine inconsequence. That, my dear, gives us men back, for a finish, the sense of superiority we need."

But here you just had one of the satirical remarks Richard was so apt at making especially in the early

stages of an acquaintance. Afterwards he generally had to eat his words, or at least water them down.

Mrs. Marriner rented a villa within easy driving distance of "Ultima Thule." This was in the early days of the

nursery, while the twins were still babies in arms, and Mary went out but little. It fell to the newcomer to pick

up the threads; and she did so with a will, calling frequently and entering wholeheartedly into Mary's

interests. She was devoted to children; and sometimes, as they sat on the verandah, Nannan would bring

Cuffy out to them. And then it was a pretty sight to see the tall, handsome woman on her knees before the

The merry voices lured even Mahony forth from his den. And having tossed his son in the air, he lingered for

a word with his wife's guest. This happened more than once; after which, as Mary had foreseen, his sarcasms

died away. Mrs. Marriner had travelled widely, and owned a large collection of photographs of famous

beautyspots; and the first time Mahony went to her house was when he and Mary drove over one evening to

view these through a stereoscope. Dotted about the rooms they found many another interesting memento of

her travels. On the chimneypiece were candelabra of Dresden china. Coloured prints of Venice by night and

the blue grotto of Capri adorned the walls. A statuette of Christ by a Danish sculptor stood on the lid of the

piano. She had a very fair assortment of books serious works, too: essays, poetry, history both old and

of the newest; and Mahony carried away with him a couple of volumes by a modern writer of verse named

In addition she was musical. Not in sister Lizzie's superb, almost professional fashion; but singing in a clear,

correct voice, and playing the pianoforte with neatness and skill. Her performance of Mendelssohn's Songs

without Words was most enjoyable. And now it was Mahony's turn to suggest inviting her; after which he

went back to sing duets, and listen to her execution of a sonata by Haydn. He relished, too, a conversation

For, the piano closed, the lady and he dropped into talk. And having skimmed the surface of various subjects

on which they found themselves in marvellous accord, they came round to the one which still engrossed

Mahony's attention. Of spiritualism Mrs. Marriner was ignorant; she begged the doctor to enlighten her. And

the rough sketch he gave her interested her so much that she expressed a strong wish to know more. He

promised to bring her an armful of literature; and then, if her interest still held, to procure her the entr�e to a

sitting at the house of that archspiritualist, Mrs. Phayre, where remarkable phenomena took place. Weird

noises might be heard there at dead of night: furniture was moved by unseen hands from its place against the

The next day he carried over the books; and Mrs. Marriner read them with what seemed to him a rare and

unfeminine insight: that is to say, she was neither alarmed, nor derisive, nor stupidly obstinate: and, so far,

except for members of the inner circle, he had known no woman whose state of mind towards the question

was not one of these three. She also jumped at his offer of introducing her at a seance. Later on, learning that

he was eager to find an unprofessional medium with whom he might experiment in private, and on whom no

shadow of suspicion could be held to rest, she herself proposed sitting at a small table in her drawingroom.

And after a few fruitless hours, during which he had every reason to admire her patience, they met with

success: the table tilted under their hands and a pencil, delicately sustained by the lady's fingers, wrote words

And Mary meant it. Gracey was no more capable of downright fraud than she herself. And yet . . . yet . . . say

what you liked, there was a part of you that simply would not accept the conclusions you were asked to draw.

To think, because a table stood on two legs, or a pencil wrote: "I am here," that dead people people who

lay mouldering in their graves! were speaking to you . . . no, that she would never be able to believe, not if

she lived to be Methusalah. Why, you might just be leaning a little too heavily on your side of the table

without knowing it. Or your hand write things down in a kind of dream, and you imagine somebody or

something else was doing it. And still be the most truthful person alive. Like Richard. Who again and again

let himself be imposed on. The truth was: if people wanted to believe such things, believe they would: the

wish was father to the thought. Well, at least this new hobby of Richard's had one advantage: it gave him

something to do. Which was just what he needed. Instead of always sitting humped up over his books.

Under the stimulus he began to look more like his old self. He spruced up his dress; and the daily ride to

Gracey's gave him beneficial exercise. As time went on, their sittings proved so satisfactory that he began to

think of publishing a small pamphlet, embodying the results. And though Mary would rather it had been on a

less outlandish subject, she hailed the idea and encouraged it. For looking after Richard became, year by year,

more like minding a fidgety child, who had always to be kept on the go. He had been such a worker in his

day. And the old fear could still wake in her at times that, being without active employment, he might all of a

But then came that afternoon when Lizzie let drop an item of news which successfully routed Mary's peace of

They did not see much of Lizzie nowadays; she and John were always in society; out night after night at

concerts, dinners, balls. Or else entertaining lavishly in their own home. It was an open secret that the

longedfor knighthood would very soon set the crown on John's labours for the colony.

Stateliness in person, gauzes and laces floating from arms and shoulders, trinkets and chains ajingle, Lizzie

swept through the hall, a majestic figure indeed. No wonder John was still unable to refuse her anything.

Then, just about to step into her carriage, she paused. "Mary, d�hling. . . I vow I all but forgot it! I have

something to tell you, love, that I think will interest you. Mary! I met a gentleman on Friday who was once

acquainted with our friend the charmin' Gracey. And what do you think? My dear, she is not a widow at

"My d�hling, her husband is still alive. He left her, love deserted her for another woman. . . the lowest of

the low! At this very moment he lives with the creature . . . in his lawful wife's stead."

As always, Mary's first impulse was to protect. . . defend. "Oh, poor Gracey! . . . how terrible for her!"

"Well, love . . . I thought you ought to know. Since dear Richard is so friendly there. And considering the

"Yes, of course. But, Lizzie, it's not her fault, is it? She can't help the man she married turning out a

But though she spoke up thus, Mary was greatly perturbed and her mind became a sea of doubts where no

doubts had been. She found herself looking at Gracey with other eyes. The fact was, a divorced or legally

separated woman even one who was just living apart from her husband was by no means the same as a

widow . . . and never could be. Gracey knew that well enough; else why, to a close friend like herself, had she

made a mystery of her state? And though not a shadow of blame should rest on her (and Mary was sure it

didn't), it meant, none the less, that she had been through all sorts of unpleasant matrimonial experiences,

which a properly married or widowed woman would know nothing about. Something of them might have

remained clinging to her . . . the old saw about touching pitch would run in Mary's head. It was dreadful.

Such a dear, nice woman as Gracey. And yet. . . deep down in Mary's heart there dwelt the obstinate

conviction that once married was always married, and that as long as your husband lived you belonged at his

side. Did you sit firm and hold fast to your rights as a wife, it seemed incredible that another woman could

ever usurp your place. Had Gracey perhaps gone off in a tantrum, leaving the coast clear? Yes, doubts would

up, and the result was, she found herself considering, with a more critical eye, the friendship that had sprung

up between Richard and Grace over their tabletilting. Never before had she known Richard so absorbed by

any one outside his home. Now suppose, just suppose Gracey, thanks to her wretched married life, had come

to regard things serious things, sacred things more lightly than she ought? What if, because of her own

unhappy past, she should not hold the marriagetie to be binding? Why was she so attractive to gentlemen?

Did they know or suspect anything? In reply to which there flashed through Mary's mind a memory of her

last visit to Yarangobilly: Willy Urquhart's infatuation and the state poor Louisa had worked herself into. Of

course there was really no comparison between the two cases none whatever! Willy was a notorious flirt:

Richard a gentleman. And poor Louisa's morbid, distorted outlook would never be hers.

Richard . . . The question that teased Mary was, should she tell him what she had heard, or keep it to herself?

In one way she agreed with Lizzie that he ought to know, he being so fastidious in his views. Besides, if he

heard it from some other source, he might feel aggrieved that she had held back. On the other hand, his

knowing would probably curtail, if not put a stop altogether to his and Gracey's experiments: he wouldn't

want to give people food for talk. And that would be a pity. Would it be disloyal to say nothing? Disloyal to

Gracey to tell what she so plainly wished to keep dark? But Richard came first. And here again, unlike

poor Louisa, Mary felt she could weigh the matter very calmly; for in her was a feeling nothing could shake:

the happily married woman's sense of possession. It was not only the fact of Richard being what he was.

Their life together rested on the surest of foundations: the experiences of many, how many years; the trials

and tribulations they had been through together; the joys they had shared; the laughs they had had over things

and people; a complete knowledge of each other's prejudices and antipathies who else could unlock, with

half a word, the rich storehouse of memories they had in common? Homelier things, too, there were in plenty,

which bound no less closely: the airing and changing of your underlinen; how sweet or how strong you drank

your coffee; how you liked your bed made; your hatred of the touch of steel on fruit; of a darn in a sock.

Deeper down though, pushed well below the topmost layer of her consciousness, just one unspoken fear did

lurk. If she told Richard what she had heard, and he did not take it in the spirit he had hitherto invariably

shown towards irregularities of this kind, Mary knew she would feel both hurt and humiliated. Not for herself

"You will smoke, doctor? Nay, please do . . . . I like it. Here are matches. Down, Rover! Not yet, Fitz!"

For at her movement a red setter had sprung up from a corner, and now stood, his front paws on her knee,

ingratiatingly wagging his tail; while observing his comrade's advance an immense black cat, which had been

dozing in an armchair, rose and dropped a kind of bobcurtsey with its hind quarters. "Behold my two

"I should be lost without them. They are such dear companions, in their dumb way." As she spoke Mrs.

"Well do I know it. In my bachelor days, living in a barkhut the whole of which would have gone into this

room, I kept no less than three." And casting the net of his memory Mahony told of his longforgotten pets,

"You had not the heart?" Now could any but a genuine animallover have put this question?

"Not exactly. But as a hardworked medico, with a growing practice . . . the burden of them, you see, would

"That is but natural. While they are so tiny." In the kindly indulgence of her tone, the speaker seemed to take

all mothers and their weaknesses under her wing. "And yet, doctor, if I had been blessed with little ones, I

think I should have brought up babies, puppies and kittens en masse . . . as one family party. Correct me

though, if I speak foolishly. Perhaps, when children come, they are all in all."

"It is amazing how the little beggars twine themselves round one's heart. Before my boy was born, my chief

feeling was a sense of the coming responsibility. I can laugh at myself now. For my wife has shouldered

What a handsome creature she was, to be sure, fullbosomed yet slender, her neat waist held by a silver

girdle, her face alight with sympathy and understanding! Mahony answered heartily: "There have, indeed,

The words set a string of memories vibrating; and a silence fell. Unlike many of her sex, who would have

babbled on, the lady just smiled and waited; and even her waiting was perfect in tact.

Mahony felt drawn to unbosom himself. "Talking of my children . . . it is sometimes a sorry thought to me

that my acquaintance with them can only be a brief one. I mean, the probability is I shall see them but to the

threshold of their adult life no further. And would like so well to know what they make of it."

His meaning was grasped . . . and with ease. "I understand that . . . especially in the case of such a gifted child

"Ah, there you mention the one bit of his education I take a hand in. For Mary has no ear for music. Nor even

"And it is so important, is it not, that the ear should be well trained from the first? The spadework done

before the child is even aware of it." (Here spoke your true musician.) "But, doctor, if our findings are

correct, you may still have the joy of watching over your little brood from the other side . . . n'estcepas?"

"Ah! . . . if that might be. If one could be sure of that." And on the instant Mahony mounted his hobbyhorse

and was carried away. "With this, my dear lady, you put your finger on what seems to me one of the vital

points of the whole question. Have you ever reflected what a difference it would make, did we mortals

seriously believe in a life to come? . . . I don't mean the JewishByzantine state of petrified adoration that the

churches offer us.... I mean a life such as we know it: a continuation of the best of this earthly existence

mental striving, spiritual aspiration, love for our neighbour. If we did so believe, our every perspective would

alter. And the result be a marked increase in spirituality. For the orthodox Christian's point of view is too

often grossly materialistic and superstitious. The tenacity with which he clings to a resurrection of the

flesh this poor cankered flesh! . . . after countless years deep in its grave that grave on which he dwells

with so morbid a pleasure. Or his childish fear of death despite the glories that are promised him on the

other side . . . do these not remind you of the sugarcandy with which an infant is bribed to take its pill?

Against all this, set the belief that in dying we pass but from one room to another of the house of life

Christ's 'many mansions.' The belief that an invisible world exists around us the spirit counterpart of this

we know. That those we have lost still live and love and await us . . . on the other side of a veil which already

a few, of rarer perceptions than the rest, have pierced. But forgive me! When once I get going on this

subject I know no measure. And I confess . . . so few opportunities to talk of it arise. My wife has scant

"Yes. She is often genuinely uneasy at the hours I spend over my books; would rather have me up and doing

and though but riding for pleasure along the seashore. Books to her are only a means of killing time."

Mrs. Marriner turned the full weight of a grave, sweet smile upon him. "While we booklovers. . . well! as

far as I am concerned, doctor, my life would be a blank indeed, without the company of the printed page."

"And what of me? . . . whose dearest dream it was, while I slaved for a living, to be able to end my days in a

library. I declare to you, it is still a disturbing thought that I shall die leaving so many books unread."

"Let me comfort you. My dear father, who lived to a ripe old age, was given to complaining towards the end

"Of course; as one grows older; and harder to please.... Myself though, I seem still far from that. The lists I

send my bookseller grow longer, not shorter. And it's not the unread books only. While we're on these

ghostthoughts we all have them, I suppose let me confess to another, and that is that I shall probably

need to go, having seen all too few of the grandeurs and beauties of this world. Pass on to the next without

"But doctor . . . what hinders you? I don't mean the Andes," and Mahony was the recipient of a roguish

smile. "But travel is so easy nowadays. One packs one's trunks, books one's berth et voil�! What hinders

Ah! what . . . what, indeed? Mahony hesitated for a moment before replying. "The truth is, the years we spent

in England were thoroughly uncongenial. . . to us both. We were glad, on getting back to the colony, to settle

Yes, that was it: of his own free will he had saddled himself with a big, expensive house, and all that

belonged to its upkeep: menservants and maidservants, horses and carriages. Mary had taken root

immediately; and now the children... their tender age.... But darker than all else loomed Mary's attitude . . . or

what might he expect this to be, if "The truth is, my wife does not . . . I mean she has gone through so

many upheavals already, on my account, that I should hardly feel justified . . . again . . . so soon . . . Still

there's no denying it: I do sometimes feel like an old hulk which lies stranded. But there! All my days I've

been gnawed by the worm of change change of any sort. As a struggling medico I longed for leisure and

books. Pinned to the colony, I would be satisfied with nothing but the old country. Now that I have ample

time, and more books than I can read, I could wish to be up and out seeing the world. And my dear wife

"I think it is with you as the German poet sings: 'There, where thou art not, there alone is bliss!'"

"Indeed and that hits my nail squarely on the head. For I can assure you it's no mere spirit of discontent as

some suppose. It's more a kind of . . . well, it's like reaching out after say, a dream one has had and half

forgotten, and struggles to recapture. That's baldly put. But perhaps you will understand."

A lengthy silence followed. The clock ticked; the dog sighed gustily. Then, feeling the moment come, the

Once the music had begun, however, he fell back on his own reflections; they were quickened rather than

hampered by the delicate tinkling of the piano. He felt strangely elated: not a doubt of it, a good talk was one

of the best of medicines, particularly for such a dry, bottledup old fogy as he was on the verge of becoming.

Of course, did you open your heart you must have, for listener, one who was in perfect tune with you; who

could pick up your ideas as you dropped them; take your meaning at a word. And mortals of this type were

all too rare; in respect of them, his life had been a sandy waste. Which had told heavily against him. Looking

down the years he saw that, all through, his most crying need had been for spiritual companionship; for the

balm of tastes akin to his own. It was a crippling reflection that never yet had he found the person to whom he

could have blurted out his thoughts without fear of being misunderstood . . . or disapproved . . . or smiled at

for an oddity. Here, having unexpectedly tapped a woman's quick perception, a woman's lively sympathy, he

had a swift vision of what might have been that misty picture that inhabits the background of most minds.

To know his idiosyncrasies fondly accepted his mental gropings accompanied, his roving spirit gauged

and condoned . . . not as any fault of his own, but as an innate factor in his blood! Ah! but for that to come to

pass, one would need to leave choosing one's fellowtraveller on the long lifejourney until one's own mind

and character had formed and ripened. How could one tell, in the twenties, what one would be on nearing the

fifties? in which direction one would have branched out, and set, and stiffened? At twenty all was glamour

and romance; and it seemed then to matter little whether or no a heart was open to the sufferings of the brute

creation; whether the written word outweighed the spoken; in how far the spiritual mysteries made appeal

questions which gradually, with time, came to seem more vital than all else. In youth one's nature cried aloud

for companionship . . . one's blood ran hot . . . the mysteries played no part. And then the years passed and

passed, and one drifted . . . drifted . . . slowly, but very surely . . . until . . . well, in many a case, he supposed

the fact that you had drifted never came to your consciousness at all. But should anything happen to pull you

up with a jerk, force you to cast the plummet; should you get an inkling of something rarer and finer: then,

the early flames being sunk to a level glow, you stood confounded by your aloofness . . . by the distance you

had travelled . . . the isolation of your state. But had he, in sooth, ever felt other than lonely, and alone? Mary

was had always been dearest and best of wives . . . yet . . . yet . . . had they, between them, a single

idea in common?... Did they share an interest, a liking, a point of view? with the one exception of an

innate sobriety and honesty of purpose. No, for more years than he cared to count, Mary had done little, as far

as he was concerned, but sit in judgment: she silently censured, mentally condemned all those things in life

which he held most worth while: his needs, his studies, his inclinations down to his very dreams and

Lizzie said: "My dear, our lady friend is in hoops now, if you please! Nothing extreme, of course, considering

from whom she takes her present cue. Just the desired soupcon! Mary, she went about as a Slim Jane only

because the cavalier of the moment approved the simplicity of the human form divine. Today she is a

rapping and tapping medium as we very well know. Tomorrow, love, the wind will shift to another

quarter, and we shall hear of the fair lady running to matins and communicating on an empty stomach. Or

Hoops . . . nothing extreme . . . considering from whom she takes her present cue. At these words, and even

while she was standing up for Gracey's sincerity, there leapt to Mary's mind, with a stab of real pain,

Richard's nervous hatred of the exaggerated the bizarre. And whether it was hoops, or hooplessness.

THESE rather waspish comments Lizzie never seemed able to resist having a thrust at Gracey were

made in the drawingroom at "Ultima Thule," where the two wives sat waiting for their husbands to rejoin

them. John and Lizzie were dining there at John's express request: the groom had ridden over after lunch with

a line from John, asking if he and Lizzie might take potluck with them that evening. Richard said: "Wonders

will never cease," and a refusal was not to be thought of; but Cook had been very put out by the shortness of

the notice; so much so that Mary had driven to town to fetch delicacies; thinking as she went, how in the old

days she would have run up a dinner for four, and one well worth eating, too, in less than an hour. Her hands

did sometimes itch to show such a fairweather worker as Cook what could be done.

By now the evening was more than half gone, and still the gentlemen lingered; though Lizzie had sung all

Richard's favourite songs and pieces, some of them more than once. To pass the time, she had also sung to

Cuffy; for as had happened ere this when she was dining there Nannan had knocked to say Master

Cuffy could not be got to sleep, for thinking his Auntie might sing to him. Cuffy as audience was better than

none, so Lizzie begged for the child to be brought in; and thereupon Cuffy appeared on Nannan's arm in his

little red flannel nightgown, his feet swathed in a crib blanket, his eyes alight with expectation. Seated on

his mother's knee he drank in: "There was a Friar of Orders Grey," and the sad ditty of "Barbara Allan,"

himself rendering "Sun of my Soul" before, soundly kissed and cosseted by his aunt, who had a great liking

Towards ten o'clock, Lizzie could no longer conceal her yawns. Mary and she had talked themselves out: and

where she had first surreptitiously peeped, she now openly drew her watch from her belt. This, John's latest

present to her, was a magnificent affair, crusted back and front with diamonds, while tiny brilliants sprinkled

the long gold chain on which it hung. Unlike most women, Lizzie could wear any quantity of jewellery

without looking overloaded. At the present moment a little heap of rings and bracelets lay on the lid of the

piano; for, in despair, she had reseated herself at the keys and begun anew to sing.

At the best of times Mary found it hard to fix her mind on music for five minutes together; and on this

evening she had had more than enough of it, and could now let her thoughts stray in comfort. She wondered

what could be keeping the two men . . . it was certainly rather impolite of Richard . . . wondered if Nannan

had at last got Cuffy to sleep. The dinner had been very nice; Cook needn't have made so much fuss

beforehand. But there! When they undertook anything of this kind, it usually went off well. The house, of

course, had something to do with it. This room, for instance, how well it lighted up! Richard declared he

much preferred it to John's, and Mary's eyes wandered lovingly round walls and furniture, lingering on the

great giltedged mirror, which reached to the ceiling; the lovely girandoles, a present from Richard; the

lustred chandelier; the glassshaded ormolu clock. The carpet, too, was of a most uncommon lemon colour;

the suite, in a brocade to match, had a pattern of French lilies on it. She loved every inch of the place. What a

happy ending to all their ups and downs! . . . to be settled at last in such a home. Did she look back on the

"Black Hole," or the snails and damp of Buddlecombe, she felt she did not always fully appreciate her present

But Lizzie here striking up a tune Mary knew, her thoughts came back with a jerk. She eyed the singer in

listening, and: "Handsomer than ever" was her mental comment; although by now Lizzie was embarked on

that adventure which, more than any other, steals from a woman's good looks. What with her full, exquisitely

sloping shoulders they stood out of the lowcut bertha as out of a cup her dimpled arms and hands, the

fingers elegantly curled on the notes of the piano; her rich red lips, opening to show the almondwhite teeth;

her massive throat, swelling and beating as she sang . . . yes, Lizzie had indeed thriven on matrimony. It was

otherwise with John. One had grown gradually used, as time passed, to the loss of that air of radiant health, of

masterful assertion, which had formerly distinguished him. But since his marriage he had turned almost into

an old man. Thin as a lath, he walked with a slight stoop, and hair and beard were grey. His face seemed to

have grown longer, too, more cadaverous; his eye had an absent, inturned expression. At dinner he had been

very silent. He had just sat there listening to Lizzie, hanging on her lips really, if he went on like this

when the two of them were at a stranger's house, it would not be quite the thing.

Afterwards, in the drawingroom, Lizzie had made open complaint of his inertia; discussing him in that

"Yes, he is growing stodgy, d�hling stodgy and slow! I said to him the other day, I said: 'John, love! this

will never do. Where is the man I married?' Will you believe it, Mary, he actually wished to stop at home

from Government House Ball last night? While this evening, if you please, he throws up an important

dinnerparty at Sir Joshua Dent's, to come here. Not but what it has been a charmin' evening, d�hling. But a

The laggards at length appearing, Lizzie crashed out a chord and rose from the pianostool to hail and

reproach them. "A pretty pair to be sure," cried she playfully yet not without malice, the while she slid on

rings and clicked the catches of bracelets; a pretty pair of husbands to prefer the society of their pipes to that

of their wives! She had been so looking forward to a duo with Richard. It was evident she had reckoned

without her host! Richard made one lame attempt to fall in with her tone, John none at all. He seemed only in

haste to go; asked for the carriage to be brought round at once; himself rang the bell and gave the order.

Lizzie might be too full of her own grievances to notice how the wind blew; but Mary had eyes in her head.

She saw that something was seriously amiss the moment the two men entered the room. Richard looked pale

and distracted and as for John! Whatever could be the matter? Had they quarrelled? . . . had a scene?

Then, in coming along the passage from the bedroom, with Lizzie enshawled at her side, she caught a

murmured word of Richard's that was evidently meant only for John's ear. And when she had seen her guests

off she did not reenter the house, but stood on the verandah, anxiously awaiting Richard who had gone to

At the crunch of his feet on the gravel, she moved forward, exclaiming impetuously before she was level with

"Matter? What on earth do you mean?" He stooped to pick up something; was exaggeratedly casual and

"Now, dear, you needn't put on that tone to me. I saw directly you came into the room . . . have you and he

"Well, then what is it? You can't deceive me, Richard . . . you don't look like that for nothing."

"My dear Mary, don't try and pump me, if you please! You know my aversion to that kind of thing."

"Richard, I heard with my own ears what you said to him in the hall. . . about a possible loophole. What did

you mean? Oh, don't be so obstinate! Very well, then! I shall go over and see John myself, the first thing

"A confidence is a confidence; and I'm hanged if I'll be hectored into betraying it."

"Anyone would think I was asking out of mere curiosity," cried Mary; and tears of vexation rose to her eyes.

"I know I have the feeling there's something wrong. And you go on talking about confidences . . . and

your own pride in not betraying them . . . when John looked to me as if he'd got his death sentence."

Richard's start did not escape her. He retorted, though less surely: "But it is at his own urgent request, Mary,

"Then he did come to consult you about his health? Oh, Richard, please! . . . don't keep me in suspense. What

"My dear, if you had gone through what I did tonight! I suppose I may as well out with it; for as usual with

your wild shot you have hit the bull'seye. The fact of the matter is, what I had to tell John did amount to a

"The worst. I examined him. A growth in the liver. No, too late now, for anything of that kind. My private

"Richard! . . . though I think I've been afraid of something like this . . . it's just as if, inside me, I had felt what

"And I suspected it. But you know, Mary, what John is . . . so unapproachable. I must say this though: I was

moved this evening to a profound admiration for him. He took the verdict like a man . . . without flinching."

"Yes, yes. But what does that matter now? The thing is, you've let him go home alone with this on his

mind and only Lizzie beside him . . . who cares for no one but herself." Mary had not known she thought

"A great spider! . . . that's what the woman is, if you want my opinion," cried Mahony angrily. "But what

could I do? Besides, at heart, I'm one with him. There are crises in a man's life that are best fought through

"At this hour of night? Indeed I advise you very strongly, Mary, to do nothing of the kind. Not only will he

resent and rightly too my having broken my word, but he won't thank you either for intruding. And

Mary reached for a wrap and threw it over her shoulders. "John won't be in bed. And I'll make it all right

about you; don't be afraid. No, no, I'll just walk over. As for intruding . . . I've always understood John

better than any of you. Besides, I don't see how people can care whether they do or not at a time like this."

"Well, at least put on a pair of sound walkingboots and take a shawl. Of course I am. If you must go, I go

Stepping out of the gate they plodded through the sand of the road that led past now a large garden, now a

wild, open space covered with gorse and heath. Masses of firs stood out black and forbidding. In the distance

They walked in silence. Once only did Mary exclaim aloud, out of the many conflicting thoughts that were

going round in her head: "Lizzie, of course, must know nothing. The last thing John will want is for her to be

And Mahony: "It will not be long now before she and every one else has to know."

" When I think . . . how . . . how proud she has been of it all I mean John's position . . . and their

entertainments . . . and his future how she has looked forward to the title coming. . . Oh dear, oh dear! If

On reaching the house they unlatched the gate with care, and crept like a pair of conspirators over the grass,

to avoid the noise their steps would have made on the gravel. The venetian blinds were down, but bars of

light filtered through them in Lizzie's bedroom on the one side, and in John's sanctum on the other. Mary

There was a moment's pause, then the French window was noiselessly opened, and she disappeared inside the

On the front verandah a rockingchair had been left standing. Mahony sat down in it and waited . . . and

waited. Time passed; an hour . . . two hours . . . and still Mary did not return. Lizzie's light had long ago gone

out; not a sound came from the house; nor did any living thing move in garden or road. So absolute was the

stillness that, more than once as he sat, he heard a petal drop from a camellia in the central bed. John had a

fine show of these stiff, scentless flowers. They stood out, white and waxen, against the dark polish of their

It was spring, and a night warm enough to release the scents of freesia and boronia; though as usual the

pittosporums outdid all else. There was no moon; but the stars made up for that; the sky was powdered white

with them was one vast field of glittering silver. Leaning back in his chair Mahony lay looking up at them

and thinking the old, wellworn thoughts that besiege a mortal at sight of the Creator's prodigality. Pigmy

man's insignificance in face of these millions of worlds; the preposterousness of the claim that his tiny

existence can engage the personal notice of Him who has strewn the Milky Way; and yet the bitter reality of

his small, mad miseries, the bottomless depths of his mental anguish: pain, as the profoundest of life's truths,

the link by which man is bound up with the Eternal . . . pain that bites so much deeper than pleasure,

And now John's link was being forged . . . his turn had come to taste pain's bitterness John who, all his

days, had looked haughtily down on weakness and decay, as touching others, not himself. The material things

of this world had been his pride and his concern. His soul, that poor soul which Mary, once more the

comforter, was standing by in its black hour, had gone needy and untended. Now he was being called on to

leave everything he prized: marriage and happiness, wealth, a proud standing, ambition crowned. Never, in

his forward march, had John looked deeper; though in his own way he had walked according to his lights: a

man of enterprise and energy, upright in business, grappling with the hardships of a new country, a pathfinder

for those who would come after. Yet for all this, a strangely unsympathetic nature! It was not alone the

absence of the spiritual in him. It was the cold, proud, narrow fashion in which he had lived enclosed in his

earthy shell, keeping the door rigidly shut on intruders. No one had really known John known what

manner of man housed within. Perhaps he had acted thus out of fear; had been afraid of the strange fears that

might be found in him. Afraid of his fellows discovering that he was hollow, a sham and a pretence, where

Well! . . . be that as it might. The time was past for probing and conjecturing. John's hour had struck; and the

phantom which had thus far borne his name, striding confident and alert through the world of men, would

soon be blotted out. However one looked at it, it was a melancholy business. The swiftness of the blow made

one realise, anew, on the edge of what an abyss one walked. Life was like a procession that trooped along this

perilous margin, brimful of hope and vigour, gay, superbly unthinking; and then of a sudden there was a gap

in the ranks, and one of the train had vanished, had pitched headforemost into the depths, to be seen no

more by mortal eyes at least. Such a disaster must surely say to those who had pinned their hearts to

this world, with no more than a conventional faith in one to come (which amounted to little or none) must

surely seem to say: take all you can get while there is still time! A little while and it may be too late. Even in

himself, who had won through to the belief that life was a kind of semisleep, death the great awakening, it

called up the old nervous fear of being snatched away before he was ready to go. One lived on . . . he lived on

. . . inactive as a vegetable . . . and at any moment the blow might fall, and his chance be gone for ever of

doing what he had meant to do, of seeing what he had meant to see. And now, sitting there under the

multitudinous stars, Mahony let the smothered ache for movement, the acute longing for change of scene that

was smouldering in him, come to full consciousness. Yes, there was no denying it: the old restlessness was

strong on him again; he was tired of everything he knew tired of putting on his clothes in the morning and

taking them off at night; tired of nursery talk and the wellknown noises about the house, and the faces he

saw every day. Tired of his books, too, and of his own familiar company. He wanted fresh scenes and people;

wanted to open his eyes on new surroundings; be on the move again feel a deck under his feet, and the

rigours of a good head wind all this, while health and a semblance of youth were left him. Another few

years and he would be past enjoying it. Now was the time to make the break . . . cut his bonds . . . front

Mary. At her name the inner stiffening, the resistance, with which his mind had approached her, yielded; and

in its place came a warm uprush of feeling. Her behaviour this very night how surely and fearlessly she

had come to the stricken man's aid, without a single hampering thought of self! There was nobody like Mary

in a crisis: happy the mortal who, when his end came, had her great heart to lean on. That was worth all else.

For of what use, in one's last hour, would be the mental affinity, the ties of intellect he had lately so pitied

himself for having missed? One would see these things then for the earthtrimmings they were. A child faced

with the horrors of the dark does not ask for his fears to be shared, or to have their origin explained to him.

He cries for warm, enfolding arms with which to keep his terrors at bay; or which, if met these must be, alone

can help him through the ordeal. Man on his deathbed was little more than such a child; and it was for the

motherarms he craved, to which he clung in passing, until, again like a child, he had dropped to sleep. Hope,

faith and love, these three . . . yes, but needed was a love like Mary's, compounded of utter selflessness, and

patience, and infinite forbearance a love which it was impossible to sin against or overthrow . . . which

had more than a touch of the divine in it; was a dim image of that infinite tenderness God Himself might be

assumed to bear towards the helpless beings He had created. Measured by it, all other human experience rang

MAMMA and Papa were going away; Master Cuffy would need to be a very good boy and do everything he

was told; so that Mamma would be pleased with him when she came back. Thus Nannan, while Eliza and she

gave the three children their morning bath; and four blue and two black eyes were turned on her in curiosity

and wonderment. Cuffy, extending his arm to have the raindrops rubbed off it, echoed her words: "Mamma

After breakfast he broke the news to Effalunt, who, though now in his old age, hairless, and a leg short, was

Going away? What would it be like? Hispyhi in the garden? . . . or a pitchnick? . . . or Mamma putting on a

He played at it during the morning: he got under an opossumrug and was a bear to the Dumplings, and go'ed

away. Later on, he was allowed to crawl inside a leather trunk that stood in Mamma's bedroom, and have the

The carriage came round after lunch; the trunk was hoisted to the roof; Mamma and Papa had their bonnets

There stood Nannan, a Dumpling's hand in each of hers. The babies, though oeyed, were serene; but Cuffy

by now was not so sure. He had watched Mamma's dresses being put into the trunk and Eliza sitting on it, to

make it shut; and the thing that worried him was, how Mamma could get up in the morning if her clothes

were locked inside the big box. He began to feel uncomfortable. And so, now the moment had come, he was

busy being a horse, capering up and down the verandah, stamping, tossing his head.

The Dumplings obediently put up their faces and offered their budmouths. Cuffy had to be called to order.

Said Mary: "Why, darling, aren't you coming to kiss Mamma and Papa goodbye? Or be a little sorry they're

Sorry? Why? He hadn't been naughty! Perfunctorily Cuffy did what was required of him, but his heart went

It was not till night that the trouble broke. Then, as often as Nannan entered the nursery, he was sitting bolt

upright and wideeyed in his crib, his little face looking each time wanner and whiter as he piped: "Is Cuffy's

"There you have it!" said Nurse to Eliza. "This is what happens when gentlemen get to interfering in things

they don't understand. If the doctor 'ud just 'ave let me say they were gone to a party, there'd 'ave been none

of this. Master Cuffy knows well enough what a party is, and though it 'ad lasted for weeks it wouldn't 'ave

made any difference to him, bless 'is little heart! It's the things they don't understand that worries children.

This fad now that they must 'ave nothing but the truth told 'em. Lord bless you! If we did that, there soon

And to mark her disapproval of Mahony's methods, Nannan kept the forbidden lamp alight, and sat by the

Meanwhile Mary and Richard had taken the afternoon train to Ballarat. For the date set for Tilly's marriage

Seated in a saloon carriage Mary undid her bonnetstrings and put her feet up on the cushions. Off at last!

And opposite her sat Richard a morose and unamiable Richard, it was true, who made it abundantly plain

that he was being dragged to Ballarat against his will. Still, there he was, and that was the main thing. Up to

She had early determined that it was his duty to be present at Tilly's wedding, and had spared no pains to win

him over. Hadn't it to a certain extent been his fault that Tilly's plans had failed, the time she stayed with

them before Cuffy was born? If he had not been so down on her, the plot she was hatching might then and

there have come to a head. As it was, one thing after another had happened to delay the issue.

Misunderstanding Tilly's abrupt departure, Purdy had disappeared upcountry again, on his commercial

rounds. Then, still upcountry somewhere, he had been in a frightful buggyaccident, pitching out

headforemost, and all but breaking his neck. For months nothing could be heard of him, he lying at death's

door with concussion and broken bones, in a little bush hospital. When Tilly did finally contrive to run him to

earth, he was literally at his last farthing, and a sick and broken man. Tilly had behaved like her own splendid

self: waiving any false pride, she had journeyed straight to see him; and at their very first meeting they had

arrived at an understanding (Mary could make a shrewd guess how) and were now to be man and wife. An

even more urgent reason why Richard should appear at the wedding was, it would greatly improve Purdy's

social standing, if it became known that Dr. Mahony had travelled all the way from Melbourne to be present.

And Purdy, poor fellow, could well do with such a lift. Even she, Mary, who had known him in so many a

Thus she reflected as she watched the landscape slip past: yellowishgrey flats, or stonestrewn paddocks

tufted with clumps of brown grass, all of which she had seen too often before to pay much heed to them. Still

she never wanted to read in a train. So unlike Richard, whose idea of a journey was to bury himself in a book

from start to finish. At the present moment he was deep in a pamphlet entitled: "The Unity, Duality or Trinity

of the Godhead?" Tch, what questions he did vex his head with! . . . he must always be trying to settle the

He was looking pale and washed out, too, not by any means his best. . . for meeting all the old friends. But

what could you expect if he would spend his life cooped up indoors? never leaving the house except to

attend long, hot seances; or sittings with Gracey. And these had rather fallen off of late. Mary didn't know

why, and he said nothing; but Lizzie as usual was prolific in hints. Poor old Richard! She did hope things

would go smoothly for him during the next three days. She would feel relieved when they were over.

But no sooner did they reach Ballarat than the trouble began. On the platform stood Tilly, wreathed in smiles,

openarmed in welcome, but gone, alas, was the decent and becoming black to which, as "old Mrs. Ocock,"

she had been faithful for so long. In its stead . . . well, there was no mincing the fact: she looked fit for Punch!

Her dress, of a loud, bottlegreen satin, was in the very latest mode, worn entirely without crinoline, so that

her full form was outlined in unspeakable fashion; her big capable hands were squeezed into lemoncoloured

kid gloves, tight to bursting, and on her head perched a monstrous white hat, turned up at the side and richly

For Mary knew very well that neither the genuine sincerity of Tilly's greeting, nor her multitudinous

arrangements for their comfort, would suffice to blot from Richard's mind the figure she cut this day.

Climbing to the driver's seat of an open buggy, all her feathers afloat, Tilly trotted a pair of cream ponies in

great style up Sturt Street. Of course everybody in Ballarat knew her, so it didn't matter for herself what she

The next thing to provoke him was the arbitrary way in which she disposed of his personal liberty. She had it

all fixed and settled that, directly supper was over, he should go back to town, to "Moberley's Hotel," and

"She wants them to be seen in public together," thought Mary as she helped Richard on with his overcoat and

muffled him up in a comforter; for the air on this tableland struck cold, after Melbourne's sealevel. "And for

that, of course, there's no better place than Moberley's Coffee Room." Aloud she said reprovingly: "Ssh!

She'll hear you. You know, dear, you needn't stop long." But Richard, chilly and tired from the railway

journey, looked as though he could cheerfully have consigned Tilly and her nuptials to Hades.

"And now you and I can 'ave a real cosy evening, love, while the lords of creation smoke and jaw about early

days," said dear blind old Tilly. Or perhaps she was not quite so blind as she seemed; and just wanted to be

rid of Richard and the atmosphere of glacial politeness that went out from him. Anyhow off he set, with a

very bad grace, and the two women retired to Tilly's bedroom. Here a great log fire burned on the

whitewashed hearth; and Tilly kept the poker in her hand with which to thump the logs, did the blaze threaten

to fail. This dyed the dimityhangings of the fourposter; made ruddy pools in the great mahogany wardrobe.

Said Tilly: "Well, here we are again, Poll, you and me, like so often before . . . and the day after tomorrow's

me weddingday. 'Pon my word it's hard to believe; and yet . . . I don't know, dearie, but somehow it seems

no time since us three bits of girls used to sit over the fire and gas about all the grand things that was going to

happen to us. That's ages back, and yet, except that we're grown a bit hulkier you and me, it might be only

yesterday. I don't feel a day older and that's the truth; which is odd when you come to think of it . . . with pa

and ma and Jinn and poor old Pa all gone, these ever so many years! I say, do you remember, Poll, how Purd

used to ride down from Melbourne? And how, when 'e'd gone, I 'd count the days off on me fingers till 'e'd

"I think you're a very lucky woman, Tilly, to get your heart's wish like this. I do hope it will bring you every

"I think it will, Poll. I'm not going into it with my eyes shut, or any of the flighty notions one has as a young

girl heaven on earth and bunkum of that sort. But now, listen to me, dearie, there's things I want to say to

you. First of all, Mary, I've fixed, once we're spliced, for Tom and Johnny to come back to this house

which they never ought to 'ave left. I won't say it 'asn't taken a bit of managing. But my mind was quite made

up. It's gone to my heart, all these years, to see how badly those poor lads were cared for. Enough to make

But Mary had raised her eyebrows. For all its kindness, she thought the plan a most unwise one. Just suppose

Purdy should turn nasty! In subtle connection the question sprang to her lips: "What about the money side of

Tilly nodded. "Ah! I can see what you're thinking, love writing me down a lovesick old fool who's going

to let Pa's good money be made ducks and drakes of. It's true, most of what I've got will pass to Purd, to do as

'e likes with. But somehow I don't believe 'e'll be a waster. A man who's gone short as long as him . . .

However, just in case, Poll" here Tilly sank her voice to a mysterious hiss "the fact is, love, I've got a

reserve fund of my own, a nestegg so to speak, which I don't mean to let on one word about . . . no, not to

anybody. Except you. I've laid something by, my dear, in the last few years, made a bit at the races; sold out

of Blazing Diamonds in the nick of time; and the long and the short of it is, Mary, I've between seven and

eight thousand by me at this very minute. What's more, I intend to keep it; just let it lie, have it to draw on, in

case of trouble. One never knows. I've got a small tin box, my dear, and out in the dairy, going down the

ladder into the cellar, a flag's come loose, which just leaves room for it. There's no chance there of fire, or

thieves either no one but myself even sets foot in the place. And if anything happens to me, it's there you'll

find it. The boys are to have it, if I go first. For as you can see, love, with no bloodtie between them and me,

there wouldn't be much call on Purd, would there, to support 'em after my death?"

Indeed that was true; nor could Purdy be blamed, if he failed to recognise the obligation. It said a good deal

for him that he was willing to accept, as inmates of his house, these two middleaged men, one of whom was

a confirmed drunkard with lucid intervals, the other little more than an overgrown child. As for Tilly's plan of

keeping a large sum of money on the premises, risky though it seemed, Mary faltered in her criticism of it.

For she knew too well the advantage of a private purse into which you could dip at will. Instead of having to

run to your husband with all the little extra expenses that would crop up, spare as you might. These were

never kindly greeted. Richard, too, had been the most generous of husbands, and she a fairly good manager.

Tilly on the other hand was lavish and lordly with money, Purdy still a dark horse in respect of it.

Another thing, as long as Purdy and Mr. Henry knew nothing, Tilly could neither be wheedled out of her

When at the end of an hour the two women kissed goodnight, Tilly uttered her usual request: "Now mind,

Oh dear no! (How Richard would have jeered!) Besides, when he got home some halfhour later, he was so

full of a new grudge against Tilly that every word had to be weighed, for fear of fanning the flames. It

seemed that on reaching Moberley's, he had found Purdy the centre of a rowdy party, whose noise and

laughter could be heard even before he entered the hotel. More: his appearance was totally unexpected. Purdy

looked as if he couldn't believe his eyes; ejaculated: "What, Dick? You here already?" and then turned back

to his companions the motley collection of commercial travellers and barhaunters he had gathered round

him. Ten minutes of this were enough for Mahony; he slipped unobserved from the room. Recognising,

however, that the appointment had been a ruse on Tilly's part to get rid of him, he did not come back to the

house, but took a long walk round the lake in the dark. There, at least, he could be sure of not meeting any

He seemed to have this idea of dodging familiar faces on the brain. Did ever any one hear the like? . . . on his

return, for the first time, to the place where he had spent a third of his life . . . where he had been so well

known and sought after. But really just how odd Richard had become, Mary did not grasp till now. And

before the following day was out, she was heartily sorry she had not left him at home. One of his worst bad

nights did not help to mend matters. He vowed he had not missed the striking of a single hour; but had tossed

and turned on a too hard bed, in a too light room, listening to the strange noises of a strange house, and

wakened for good and all long before dawn, by the crowing of "a thousand infernal roosters." Before any one

There was nothing to be done with him. Summoned to the drawingroom to greet Amelia Grindle and Agnes

Ocock, who drove over immediately after breakfast "for a glimpse of our darling Mary," he was so stiff and

found so little to say that poor Amelia, timid and fluttery as ever, hardly dared to raise her eyes from her

boots. Thereafter Mary left him in peace on the back verandah, and sought to waylay Tilly, whose main idea

of hospitality poor old Tilly! was continually to be bothering him with something to eat.

The person who did not look near was Purdy; and this was an additional source of offence. The least he could

have done, said Richard, was to ride out and make up for his offensive behaviour of the night before. Didn't

the fellow grasp that he, Mahony, had come to Ballarat solely with the object of doing him a good turn?

Privately Mary thought it very unlikely that Purdy, or Tilly either, saw Richard's presence in this light. Aloud

she observed that he must know it would not be considered proper for the bridegroom to hang about the

He also flouted her suggestion that he should himself pay some visits look up the Archdeacon, or

Chinnery of the National, or those colleagues on hospital or asylum with whom he had once been intimate.

"Then why, if you're so sure of it, feel hurt because they don't come? For that's what you are," said Mary

bluntly. She wore a large cookingapron over her silk gown, and looked tired but content. She had helped to

set the weddingbreakfast on long trestletables running the length of the hall; had helped to pack and strap

the bride's trunks for the journey to Sydney; had baked some of her famous cakes, and laid the foundation for

the more elaborate cream dishes that were to be whipped up the first thing next morning.

She went on: "Personally, I don't see how you can expect people to run after you, when you've never troubled

to keep up with them . . . written a line or sent a message." And just because she herself thought some of

Richard's old friends might have done him the compliment of calling, Mary spoke very warmly. Adding:

"Well, at least you'll take a stroll round the old place now you're here, and see how it's grown."

"Indeed and I'll do nothing of the sort! . . . now don't start badgering me, Mary. Why on earth should I go to

the trouble of soldering old links, for the sake of a single day? I'll never be here again."

"Tch, tch!" said Mary. "With you it's always yourself . . . nothing but I, I, I!"

"Well, upon my word! . . . I like that. After me dragging all this way . . . not to speak of being perched up

At this Mary laughed aloud. "Oh, Richard! As if they would ever think of looking at anybody but the bride! .

But Richard, it seemed, suffered from an intense nervous conviction that he would be a target for all eyes.

Something before three o'clock the following afternoon, Mary stood on the front verandah, which was white

and scrunchy with flowers and rice, and watched him, carpetbag in hand, make a dash for gate, trap, and the

train that was to carry him back to town. Indoors the guests still lingered: you could hear a buzz of talk, the

clink of glasses, the rustle of silk; and she herself was not leaving till next day, having promised Tilly first to

see the house restored to order. But nothing would persuade Richard to stop a moment longer than was

Tossing hat and bag on the cushions of the railway carriage, Mahony fell into a seat and wiped his forehead.

Doors slammed; a bell rang; they were off. Well, that was over, thank God!... and never, no, never! would he

let himself be trapped into this kind of thing again. To begin with, he had been inveigled here on false

pretences. It no doubt buttered Tilly's vanity to see his name topping the list of her weddingguests. But as

far as all else was concerned, he might have stayed comfortably at home. Purdy had not cared a

threepennybit one way or the other. As for it ever dawning on the fellow that he was being given a legup

a social safeconduct, so to speak all such rubbish originated in Mary's confounded habit of reading

But while he could dismiss Tilly and her folly with a smile, Purdy's bovine indifference roused a cold

resentment in him. Consciously he had washed his hands of the connection long since. And yet it seemed as

if a part of him still looked for gratitude or at least a show of gratitude did he exert himself on Purdy's

behalf. Which was absurd. And anyhow Purdy had never been famous for delicacy of feeling a

graceless, thankless beggar from the start. In his heyday, a certain debonair blitheness had cloaked his

shortcomings. Now, time having robbed him of every charm, he stood revealed in all his crudity: obese,

loosemouthed, with an eye grown shifty from overreaching his fellowmen: how he plumed himself on his

skill as a Jeremy Diddler! Oh, this insufferable exaggeration! this eternal bragging . . . even while they

were waiting in church for the arrival of the bride, he had been unable to refrain. Mary said: "Do have

patience. Mark my words, Tilly will knock him into shape." But Mahony doubted it. Once a boaster, always a

boaster! besides, the fair fat Tilly was too far gone in love to wish to chip and change her chosen. Her face

had been oily with bliss as she stood with her groom before the altar, he in a check the squares of which could

have been counted from across the road, draped in a watchchain on which he might have hanged himself;

she, puceclad, in a magenta bonnet topped with roses the size of peonies, which sat crooked over one ear.

(Mary, cool and pale in silver grey, looked as though sprung from a different branch of the human race.)

What a farce the whole thing had been! . . . from beginning to end. The congratulations he had had to smirk a

response to on "his friend's" marriage, "his friend's" good fortune. Then old Long's flowery periods, which

would have well befitted a dewy damsel of eighteen, but bordered on the ludicrous when applied to Tilly,

who would never see forty again, and had been through all this before. Henry Ocock "giving away" his

mature stepmother and her moneybags, his father's moneybags, those bags that should by rights have

descended to his son: in spite of his sleek suavity, it was not hard to imagine the wrath that burned behind

Henry's chalky face and bootbutton eyes. He was ageing, was Henry; white hairs showed in his jetty beard

and the creasing of his lids made him look foxier than ever. But so it was with all of them. Those he had left

young were now middleaged the middleaged had grown old. Like Henry's, their faces had not improved in

the process. Time seemed to show up the vacancy that had once been overlaid by rounded cheeks and a

smooth forehead. Or else the ugly traits in a nature, ousting the good, had been bitten in as by an etcher's

acid. He wondered what secrets his own phiz held, for those who had eyes to see. The failures and defeats his

prime had been spent in enduring had each left its special mark, in the shape of hollow, or droop, or

wrinkle? Oh, his return to this hated place called up bitter memories from their graves: raised one obscene

ghost after another, for his haunting. Here, he was to have garnered the miraculous fortune that would lift him

for ever out of the mud of poverty; here had dreamt the marriage that was to be like no other on earth; here

turned back, with a big heart, to the profession that should ensure him ease and renown even the cutting

himself loose, when everything else had miscarried, was to have heralded the millennium. No! one's past

simply did not bear thinking about. Looking back was wormwood and a wound. It meant remembering all the

chances you had not taken; the gaudy soapbubble schemes that had puffed out at a breath; meant an inward

writhing at the toll of the years flown by, empty of achievement at the way in which you had let him get

the better of you. Time, which led down and down, with a descent ever steeper and more rapid, till it landed

you . . . in who knew what Avernus? Nervously Mahony unclasped his bag and rummaged a book from its

The train was racing now. They had passed Navigator, white and sweet with lucerne; and the discomforts and

Cuffy, playing that evening on the front verandah, was surprised by the sudden advent of his father, who

caught him up, tossed and soundly kissed him with a: "And how is my little man? How is my darling?" But at

three years old even a short absence digs a breach. Cuffy had had time to grow shy. He coloured, hung his

head, looked sideways along the floor; and as soon as he was released pattered off to Nannan and the nursery.

THE old mahogany fourposter with the red rep hangings had been brought out from among the lumber, and

set up afresh in John's study. And soon after his interview with Mahony John shifted his quarters to this

room, on the pretence of sleeping poorly and disturbing his wife. Lizzie raised fierce objections to the

change. It took Mary to mollify her, and to insist that she must now place her own health and comfort above

everything. Save in this one point, it was true, Lizzie needed small persuasion. The household danced to her

Emmy's room was only a trifle nearer the study than the other bedrooms; but in everything that touched her

father the girl's senses were preternaturally acute. And so it happened that she started out of her first sleep,

wakened she did not know by what, but conscious, even as she opened her eyes, of sounds coming from her

father's room the strange, heartrending sounds of a man crying. Sitting up in bed, her hands pressed to

her breast, Emmy listened till she could bear it no longer: stealthily unlatching the door, she crept down the

passage to the study. And there, on this and many another night, she lay crouched on the mat, her heart

bursting with love and pity; while John, believing himself alone with his Maker, railed and rebelled, in blind

anguish, against his fate. Yes, Emmy knew before any one else that some disaster had come upon her father.

And in the riot of emotion the knowledge stirred in her, there was one drop of sweetness: she alone shared his

The feeling of intimacy this engendered did much to help her over the days of suspense that followed; when

she waited from hour to hour for the unknown blow to fall. She confided in no one not even Aunt Mary.

Her father himself she dared not approach. Papa was so stern with her. Once, after a night when she really

thought her heart would break, she ventured a timid: "Papa, if there is anything . . . I mean, Papa . . . if I could

. . ." But he stared so angrily at her that she turned and ran from the room, for fear of bursting out crying

as much at the sound of her own words and the feeling of selfpity they roused in her, as at his cold repulse.

She did not see the look he threw after her as she went. "Her mother's daughter," was his muttered comment;

and long past days rose before him, when there had been one at his side from whom nothing was hid. Tatting

and crocheting, crocheting and tatting, Emmy gave her imagination free play. A failure in business, even

bankruptcy was the solution she favoured being still too young to face of herself the destructive thought of

death. And did this happen, and Papa lose all his money, then would come her chance. He would learn that he

had one faithful soul at his side, one shoulder to lean on. Together they would go away, he and she, right into

the bush if necessary, and start life afresh. But again there were moments when she indulged an even dearer

hope: at last, perhaps, Papa was beginning to see what a dreadful mistake his marriage had been.

For Emmy hated her stepmother; hated her, and sat in judgment on her, with the harshness of the young

creature who has been wounded in her tenderest susceptibilities. Thus, though for the most part she rejoiced

to know Lizzie among the uninitiated, she could also burn with a furious, unreasoning anger against her for

living on, so blindly, so selfishly, without noticing that something was amiss. At sight of the big woman lying

stretched on her chaise longue, idly fanning herself, book and vinaigrette at her elbow; or Papa bathing her

temples for her with lavenderwater, or running errands for her like a servant at things like these Emmy

clenched her fist, and averted her telltale eyes. She hated, too, Lizzie's vigorous, exaggerated manner of

speaking; hated the full red lips that went in and out and up and down when she talked; her affected languor. .

But with the crash came also the chance of revenge. Then it was Emmy's turn; and she could say in all good

faith: "Oh, don't let her don't let . . . Mamma go in to him, Aunt Mary! She worries him so." As always,

there was just the suspicion of a pause a kind of intake of the breath before she got the "Mamma" out;

a name here bestowed for the third time, and only after a severe inward struggle, because he had wished it.

Meanwhile John's serene and dignified existence had shattered to its foundations; carrying with it, in its fall,

the peace and security of those lesser lives that depended on it. For close on six months, he had kept his own

counsel. With his once full lips pinched thin in his old, greying face, he went doggedly to and from the

warehouse in Flinders Lane, as he had done every day for fiveandtwenty years: driving off at nine of a

morning, and returning as the clock struck six to escort Lizzie to any entertainment she still cared to

patronise: and this, though his skin had gone the colour of dry clay or a dingy plaster, and he was so wasted

that his clothes seemed to flap scarecrowlike on his bones. Mary's heart bled for him; and even Richard was

moved to remark that what John must be suffering, both mentally and physically, God alone knew. But they

could only pity in silence; open compassion was not to be thought of: after the one terrible night Mary had

spent with John, the subject of his illness was taboo, even to her. Alone, sheathed in his impenetrable reserve,

he prepared for his departure; bade farewell, behind locked doors, to a life of surpassing interest, now cut

short in midcareer. In politics, his place would not be hard to fill. But of the great business he had built up

he was still the mainspring; and, in a last spurt of his stiff pride, he laboured to leave all that concerned it in

perfect order. And yet, watching him with her heart in her eyes, Mary sometimes wondered... wondered

whether the unquenchable optimism that had made him the man he was had even yet wholly deserted him. He

had had so little experience of illness, and was, she knew, still running privily from doctor to specialist;

giving even quacks and their remedies a trial. Did he nurse a hope that medical opinion, right in ninetynine

cases, might prove wrong in his, and he have the hundredth chance? One thing at least she knew: he intended,

if humanly possible, to bear up till the child was born and Lizzie better able to withstand the blow.

But this was not to be. The morning came when, in place of rising and tapping at his wife's door, solicitously

to inquire how she had passed the night, John, beaten at last, lay prostrate in his bed . . . from which he never

A scene of the utmost confusion followed. Mary, summoned just as she was sitting down to breakfast, found

Lizzie in hysterics, John writhing in an agony he could no longer conceal. The scared servants scuttled

aimlessly to and fro; the children, but half dressed, cried in a corner of the nursery. Emmy alone had her wits

Meeting Mary at the front door, she held out two clasped hands imploringly. "Oh . . . what is it? Aunt Mary!

"Emmy . . . your poor, dear father my darling, I look to you to be brave and help me he will need all

Long prepared for some such emergency, Mary took control. Dispatching the groom at a gallop for the

doctor, she mixed a soothingdraught for Lizzie ("See to her first," was John's whispered request) and gave

John the strongest opiate she dared. The children were put in the carriage, and sent to "Ultima Thule." Then,

as Richard had directed, Mary cleared the sickroom of superfluous furniture; while Emmy bore a note to Miss

Julia Mary's sole confidante. And faithful to a promise, Miss Julia was back with Emmy inside an hour.

Without her aid she at once saw to Lizzie, and brought the servants to their senses without this sane, calm

presence, Mary did not know how she would have managed, John from the start obstinately refusing to let her

out of his sight. Or for that matter without Emmy either . . . Emmy was her right hand. Nimble, yet

lightfooted as a cat; tireless; brave; Emmy now proved her mettle. Nothing was beneath her: she performed

the most menial duties of the sickroom with a kind of fiery, inner gratitude. And, these done, would sit still as

a mouse, a scrap of needlework in her hand, just waiting for the chance of springing up afresh. Her young

face grew thin and peaked, and the life went out of her step; but she never complained, or sought to obtrude

her own feelings. Only one person knew what she was suffering. It was on Auntie Julia's neck that she had

had her single breakdown, and wept out her youthful passion of love and despair.

And Auntie Julia, knowing everything, understanding everything, wisely let her cry and cry till she could cry

no more. "There, there, my little one! There, there!" But after this Emmy did not again give way. Indeed,

thought Mary, there was something in her of John's own harsh selfmastery: a trait that sat oddly on her soft

Lizzie was the sorest trial. But then, poor thing, was it to be wondered at in her condition, and after the shock

John had given her? For when, that first morning he failed to present himself at her bedside, Lizzie passed in

a twinkling from a mood of pettish surprise to one of extreme ungraciousness. The housemaid was

peremptorily bidden to go knock at the master's door and ask the reason of his negligence. The girl's confused

stammerings throwing no light on this, Emmy was loudly rung for. "Pray, my love, be so good as to find out

if your Papeh, who has evidently forgotten to wish me a goodmorning, does not intend going to town

today!" And when Emmy, sick and trembling, yet with a kind of horrific satisfaction, returned bearing

John's brutal reply: "No, not today, nor ever again!" Lizzie, now thoroughly roused, threw on a wrapper and

On discovering the true state of things she dropped to the floor in a swoon. Restored to consciousness and got

back to bed, she fell to screaming in hysterical abandonment on his arrival the doctor had more to do for

her than for John, and pulled a long face. And even when the danger of a premature confinement was over,

and the worst of the hysteria got under, she would lie and sob and cry, breaking out, to whoever would listen,

"Oh, Mary, love! When I think how I have been deceived! . . . the trick that has been played on me . . . me

who ought to have known before any one else. John and his secrecy! he has made a fool of me, even in

"My poor, dear Lizzie! Do believe me, he only wanted to spare you . . . as long as he could. Consider him

now, and his sufferings, and don't make it harder for him than you can help. Think, too, of your baby."

But she might as well have talked to a post: Lizzie continued stormily to weep and to rail. The two older

women bore patiently with her, even coming to consider it a good thing that she was thus able to vent her

emotion. It remained for Emmy, Emmy with the hard and unyoung look her face assumed when she spoke of

her stepmother, to make the bitter comment: "She's not really sorry for Papa she's savage, Aunt Mary,

that's what she is!" a point of view which Mary herself was so rigidly suppressing that it received but

scant quarter. "Emmy, Emmy! You must not say such things of your Mamma." But Richard declared the girl

had hit the nail on the head. It was herself and herself alone Lizzie grieved for.

"And is it so unnatural? Has Fate not played her a shabby trick? She took John, as we all know, because he

was by far the best catch that had ever come her way. Now, after a few brief years of glory, and when her

main ambition was about to materialise, the Lady Turnhamtobe sees herself doomed to a widow's dreary

existence: all weepers and seclusion: with, for sole diversion, the care of an unwanted infant. Not to speak of

"It does sound harsh . . . the way you put it," said Mary, and retied her bonnetstrings; she had run home

However, if he and Emmy were right about Lizzie and her feelings, then what a blessing it was that John, in

his illness, made no demands on her, asking neither for nor after her. With his one request on the morning of

his collapse, that she should receive first attention, all thought for her seemed exhausted: just as, in the brutal

answer he returned her by Emmy, had evaporated his love and care. From the sound of her pitiless crying he

turned with repugnance away. Did she enter his room, with a swish of the skirts, either forgetting to lower her

voice or hissing in a melodramatic whisper, he was restless till she withdrew. Except for Mary and he

On taking to his bed he had severed, at one stroke, every link with the outside world: and soon he was to lie

drugsodden and mercifully indifferent even to the small world of his sickroom. But before this happened he

expressed one wish or rather gave a last order. The nature of his illness was not to be made known beyond

"Trying to keep his Chinese Wall up to the end," said Mahony. "His death like his life is to be

nobody's business but his own. Well, well . . . as a man lives so he shall die!"

But Mary was much perturbed. A dying man's whim and as such, of course, it had to be respected. But

what could it hurt now whether people knew what was the matter with him or not? Concealing the truth

meant all sorts of awkward complications. But Emmy, overhearing this, flushed sensitively and looked

distressed. "Oh, Aunt Mary, don't you see? Papa is . . . is ashamed of having a cancer."

Ashamed? . . . ashamed of an illness? . . . Mary had never heard of such a thing. But Richard, struck afresh by

Emmy's acumen, declared: "That's it! The girl is right. You call it a sick man's fancy, I the exaggerated

reserve of a lifetime, but Emmy knows better, sees deeper than any of us." And added a moment later: "It

strikes me, my dear, that if instead of hankering after that impossible scapegrace of a son, just because he was

a son, your brother had had a little more eye for the quick wits and understanding of his daughter, he might

News of the serious illness of the Honourable John Millibank Turnham, M.L.C., brought an endless string of

callers and inquirers to the door: the muffled knocker thudded unceasingly. People came in their carriages, on

horseback, on foot; and included not merely John's distracted partners, and his colleagues on the Legislative

Council, but many a lesser man and casual acquaintance Mary herself marvelled to see how widely known

and respected John had been. And those who could not come in person wrote letters of condolence, sent gifts

of luscious fruit and choice flowers and outofseason delicacies anything in short of which kindly

people could think, to prove their sympathy. It was one person's while to receive the visitors, answer the

letters, acknowledge the gifts. Fortunately this very person was at hand in the shape of Zara. Zara's elegant

manners and her ease in expressing herself on paper were exactly what was wanted.

She and Hempel were staying in lodgings at Fitzroy, prior to setting out on the forlorn hope of a sea voyage.

For, after numerous breakdowns, poor Hempel he looked as if the first puff of wind would blow him

overboard; Richard called him: "The next candidate for the Resurrection!" had been obliged definitely to

abandon his pastorate. In the meantime he was resting in bed from the fatigues of the train journey, before

undertaking the fresh fatigues to which Zara, in her wilful blindness, condemned him.

At John's, Zara received in the diningroom among horsehair and mahogany, as better befitting the occasion

than the gilt and satin of the drawingroom. Lugubriously clad, she spoke with the pious and resigned air of

one about to become a mourner. "My poor brother," "Our great grief," "God's will be done!" But of an

evening when the rush was over, she carried to Lizzie a list of names and gifts and a sheaf of letters.

Her sibilant tones were audible through the halfclosed door. "Yes, Judge O'Connor yes, yes, my dear,

himself in person! ... with his own and his lady's compliments. . . desires to be kept informed of our dear

And Lizzie's rich, fruity tones: "Major Grenville, did you say? . . . on behalf of his Excellency? Very

Mary was never one to jib at trifles. But as often as Emmy heard them at it, she clenched her fist and ground

her teeth. How she hated them! . . . hated them. To be able to care who called and who didn't call, when Papa

lay dying! In her passionate young egoism she demanded that there should be no room in any mind but for

But, as week added itself to week, and John still lay prostrate, and since, too, the most heartfelt inquiries

evoked none but the stereotyped response: "No improvement," the press of sympathisers visibly declined.

People ceased to call daily; came but once a week; then at still wider intervals. And at length even the

hardiest dropped off, and a great stillness settled round the dying man. John was forgotten; was reckoned to

the dead before he was actually of them. Only once more on earth would he, for a brief hour, play a leading

The flawless constitution that had been so great an asset to him in life stood him now in ill stead. His dying

was arduous and protracted. Behind the red rep hangings there went on one of those bitter struggles with

death that wring from even the least sensitive an amazed: "Wherefore? To what end?" Cried Mahony,

watching John's fruitless efforts: "The day will come, I'm sure of it, when we shall agree to the incurable

sufferer being put painlessly away. We need a lethal chamber, and not for dumb brutes alone." At which

Mary looked apprehensive, and wished he wouldn't. A good job he was no longer in practice. Or what would

Meanwhile, thought his wife, he was in his element, all tenderness and consideration for John he went to

endless trouble in procuring for him the newest make of waterbed which was just what one would expect

of Richard. Nor would he have him teased about religious questions or his approaching end. On the other

hand, had John shown the least desire for religious consolation, Richard would have been the person to see

But this John did not. At those rare moments when he was awake to his surroundings and tolerably free from

pain, he lay exhausted and inert, his eyes closed, and with little to distinguish him from one already dead.

What his innermost thoughts were, what his hopes and fears of a hereafter, remained his own secret. The

single wish that crossed his lips seemed to point to his mind still occupying itself with earthly things.

Mary, sewing beside the bed, looked up one day to find his sunken eyes open and fastened on her.

He signified yes with his lids, sparing himself any superfluous word for fear of rousing up his enemy. Then,

Thus it came about greatly against the wish of Mahony, who held that illness and suffering were evil

sights for childish eyes that Cuffy was one day lifted into the carriage beside Nannan, where he sat his

little legs adangle, clad in his best velvet tunic and with his Scotch cap on his head. He looked pale and

solemn. Nannan and Eliza had made such funny faces at each other, and had whispered and whispered. And

while she was dressing him Nannan had talked about nothing but how good and quiet he must be, and what

would happen to him if he wasn't. In consequence, directly he was set down from the carriage Cuffy started

walking on the tips of his toes; and on tiptoe, holding fast to his nurse's hand, crept laboriously up the gravel

At the front door stood Cousin Emmy, who kissed him and led him in. Like Nannan she, too, said: "Now you

must be a very good boy, Cuffy, and not make the least noise." Cuffy's heart began to thump with anxiety: he

walked more gingerly than before. The house felt like the nursery when the Dumplings were asleep. Emmy

opened a door into a room that was quite dark. It had also a very nasty smell. Someone was snoring. Cuffy

Then he was at his mother's knee, mechanically holding out his hands to have his little gloves peeled off. But

his thoughts were with his eyes pinned to some one lying in a bed . . . a man with a dark yellow face and a

grey beard, who was asleep and snoring like Nannan did. Cuffy did not associate this funnylooking

person with his uncle; he just stood and stared stupidly. Nevertheless, something very disturbing began to go

Then two big black shiny eyes were awake and looking at him. They looked and looked. Cuffy stood

transfixed, his lips apart, his breath coming unevenly, his own eyes round with a growing fear.

A yellow hand like a claw came over the bedclothes towards him, and some one tried to speak; and only

". . . does you credit. But . . . at his age . . . John . . . a finer . . . child." After which the eyes shut and the

Then, though he had only just come, somebody said: "Kiss your uncle goodbye, Cuffy."

This was too much. As he was lifted up Cuffy made protest, wildly working his arms and legs. "No, no!"

But his lips had brushed something cold and clammy before, his clothes all twisted round him, he was put

back on the floor. And by then the face on the bed had changed: the eyes were all wrinkles now; the mouth

like a big black hole. Somebody screamed. And now people were scurrying about, and there came Aunt

Lizzie running in her dressinggown, and she was naughty and cried, making the noise he had been told not

Then some one took his hand and ran him out of the room to the diningroom, where, his eyes wiped and his

nose blown, Cousin Emmy gave him a nectarine, which she peeled for him and cut up in quarters, because it

was "nicer so." He was also allowed to eat it messily, and not scolded for letting the juice drip down his tunic.

But at home again, he felt the need of blowing out his shrunken selfesteem. It was a chance, too, of making

himself big in the eyes of his playfellow Josey, the youngest of his three cousins, a longlegged girl of seven,

who domineered over him, smacked him and used his toys without asking. There she came along the

verandah, dragging his best horse and cart with her nasty big black eyes, and the hair that stuck straight

Under seal of secrecy and with an odd sense of guilt, as if he was doing something he ought not to, Cuffy

confided to her his discovery that big people could cry, too. "I seed your Mamma do it."

But in place of being impressed Josey was very angry. Grabbing the secretmonger's silky topknot, she shook

him soundly. "That's a storwy, Cuffy Mahony, and you're a howwid storwyteller! Gwownup people never

cwy!" The fact that she spoke with a strong lisp, while a baby like Cuffy would talk plainly, always rendered

Josey very emphatic. Moreover in the present case, she still burned with shame at the disgraceful knowledge

The afternoon before, an odd thing happened. Mary and Emmy were alone with him, he lying drugged and

comatose, and Mary had been fanning him, for it was very warm. Outside, beneath a coppercoloured sky, a

scorching north wind blew; the windows of the room were shut against swirling clouds of dust. There was no

sound but John's laboured breathing, and, exhausted, Mary thought she must have dropped into a doze. For

when, warned by a kind of instinct she started up, she saw that John's eyes were open: he was gazing with a

glassy stare at the footend of the bed. And as she watched, an extraordinary change came over the shrunken,

jaundiced face. The eyes widened, the pinhole pupils dilated; while the poor, burst lips, on which were

black sores that would not heal, parted and drew back, disclosing the pallid flesh of the gums. John was

A second later and the whole face was transfigured lit by an expression of rapturous joy. John even made

an abortive effort to raise himself to hold out his arms. His breath came sobbingly.

At first sound of her name, Emmy sprang from her seat behind the curtains and threw herself on her knees at

the bedside, close to John's groping hand. "Papa! . . . yes, oh yes? Oh, papa. . . darling!"

But John did not hear her. All the life left him was centred in his eyes, which hung, dazed with wonder, on

something visible to them alone. Bending over the passionately weeping girl Mary whispered: "Hush, hush,

Mahony knew nothing of this occurrence till long after. By the time he got there that evening, the

deathagony had begun; and now the one thought of those gathered round John's bed was to ease and speed

his passing. It was a murderous business. For the drug that had thus far blunted the redhot knives that

hacked at his vitals suddenly lost its power: injections now gave relief but for a few moments on end; and,

hour after hour, hour after hour, his heartbreaking cry for help beat the air. "Morphia . . . morphia! For

But the kindly, bearded physician who sat with a finger on John's wrist remained impassive: the dose now

necessary to reduce the paroxysms would be more than the weakened heart could bear. And so, livid,

At the end of the afternoon those present felt that the limits of human endurance had been reached. All eyes

hung on the doctor's, with the same mute appeal. The two men, Mahony and the other, exchanged a rapid

glance. Then, bending over the writhing anguished thing that had once been John Turnham, the doctor

addressed it by name. "Mr. Turnham; you are in your right mind . . . and fully aware of what you are saying.

Do you take the injection necessary to relieve you, of your own free will and at your own risk?"

A moment's stir and business, and the blessed sedative was running through the quivering veins, the last

excruciating pangs were throbbing with hammerstrokes to their end: upwards from the feet crept the blissful

numbness. . . rising higher. . . higher. . . higher. And, as peace descended and the heavy lids fell to, Mahony

stepped forward, and taking one of the dying hands in his said in a loud, clear voice: "Have no fear of death,

Already floating out on the great river, John yet heard these words and was arrested by them. Slowly the lids

rolled back once more, and for the fraction of a second the broken eyes met Mahony's. In this, their last,

living look, not a trace was left of the man who had been. They were now those of one who was about to be

fined and refined; rich in an experience that transcended all mortal happenings; wise with an ageless

wisdom. And as they closed for ever to this world, there came an answer to Mahony's words in ever so faint a

flattening of the lips, an almost imperceptible intake at the corners of the mouth, which, on the sleeping face,

had the effect of a smile: that lurking smile, remote with peace, and yet touched with the lightest suspicion of

John did not wake again. Towards midnight his breathing grew more stertorous, the intervals between the

breaths longer. And at last the moment came when the watchers waited for the next . . . and waited . . . in

All was over; the poor weeping, shattered women were led from the room. Mary, despite her grief, kept her

presence of mind, and Miss Julia with her. But Lizzie was convulsed; and poor little Emmy, her long service

ended, broke down utterly and had to be carried to bed, and chafed, and dosed with restoratives. Zara was

bidden see to the children, John's three, who had been brought over during the afternoon in case their father

should ask for them: forgotten, hungry, tired, they had cried themselves to sleep, and now lay huddled in a

tearstained group on the diningroom sofa. Mahony and the doctor busied themselves for yet a while in the

deathchamber; after which, decently composed and arranged, John formed no more than a sheetdraped

rising on the bed's smooth plain. Mahony locked the door behind him and took the key. The dogcart had

come round, and Jerry, who was to drive back to town with the doctor, stood, his collar turned up, all of a

fidget to get home to Fanny and his children. Mahony went out with them and, having watched them drive

off, paused to breathe the night air, which was fresh and welcome after the fetid odours of the sickroom. And

standing there under the stars he sent, like an arrow of farewell, a parting thought to the soul that might even

now be winging its way to freedom, and to whom soon all mysteries would be plain. John had made a brave

end. There had been no whining for pity or pardon: on his own responsibility he had lived, and he died by the

same rule the good Turnham blood had come out in him to the last. And as he reentered the house,

where, by now, the last exhausted watcher was sinking into unconsciousness, Mahony murmured halfaloud

SOME six months later the Mahonys set out on their second voyage to England. They sailed by the

clippership Atrata and travelled in style, accompanied by a maid to attend to Mary and both nurses. And

It had proved easier to persuade Mary to the break than Mahony had dared to hope. John's illness and death

paved the way. For, by the time her long vigil at his bedside was over, and Lizzie seen safely through a

difficult confinement, Mary's own health was beginning to suffer. A series of obstinate coughs and colds

plagued her; and a thorough change of air was advisable. A change of scene, too. Though Mary was not given

to moping and, at the time, had thankfully accepted John's release, yet when it came to taking up her ordinary

life again the full sense of her loss came home to her. And not to her alone but to every one. John's had been

None the less, the sacrifice she was now called on to make was a bitter one, and cost her much heartburning:

when she first grasped the kind of change Richard was tentatively proposing, she burst into heated

exclamation. What, break up their home again? . . . their lovely home? Leave all the things they had collected

round them? Leave intimates and friends and their assured position? . . . to go off no one knew where . . . and

where nobody knew them? Oh, he couldn't mean it! And what about the children? . . . still mere babies

"For though you talked till you were black in the face, Richard, you would never get me to leave them

behind!" and the drawbacks of shiplife for them at their tender age? . . . the upset in their habits . . . not

to speak of having to watch them grow spoilt and fractious: winding up with her dread of the sea, his

But Mahony, though he spoke soothingly, stuck to his guns. It was only to be a visit this time, he urged. It

could hardly hurt the house to be let for a year or so. A good tenant would take good care of it; and it would

be there, just as it stood, for them to come back to. Then both nurses would go with them; and as for the

darlings being too young for a voyage, that was the sheerest nonsense: on the contrary, it would do them a

world of good; perhaps even turn Cuffy into a sturdy boy. The same could be said for her own ailments: there

was nothing like the briny for laying coughs and colds; while the best cabin in the ship would go far towards

lessening the horrors of seasickness. As for England, they would not know it for the same country,

travelling as they did today. Plenty of money, introductions to good people, going everywhere, seeing

everything; and ending up, if she felt disposed, with a jaunt to the Paris Exhibition and a tour of the

But his words fell flat: Mary only shrugged her shoulders in reply. Tours and exhibitions meant nothing to

her. She hadn't the least desire to travel or at any rate to go farther afield than Sydney or Tasmania. She

had been so happy here . . . so perfectly happy! Why, oh why, could Richard not be content? And that he

could forget so easily how he had hated England . . . and disliked the English . . . . well, no, she must be fair

to him. As he said, life over there would be a very different thing now they had money. (Though all the

money in the world wouldn't stop it raining!) He might also be right about the voyage doing the chicks good;

and it would certainly give them, tiny tots though they were, just that something which colonialbred

children lacked. But oh, her home! . . . her beautiful home. To have to hand it over to strangers, have

strangers tramping on your best carpets, sleeping in your beds, using your eggshell china even the best of

tenants would not care for the things as she did. She had asked nothing better than to spend the rest of her life

at "Ultima Thule"; and here now came Richard, for whom even a few years of it had proved too many.

Luxury and comfort, or poverty and hard work, it did not seem to matter which: the root of the evil lay in

himself. On the other hand she mustn't forget how splendidly he had behaved over John's illness: never

grumbling at her long absences, or at being left to the tender mercies of the servants. Many another husband

might have said: let them hire some one to do their nursing, and not wear out my wife over it! But Richard

And her first heat cooled, wiser counsels prevailed; the end of which was a sturdy resolve to smother her own

feelings and think only of him. Two considerations finally turned the scale. One was that when, with Lizzie's

convalescence, she was free to return home, she had a nasty shock at the state in which she found Richard.

Without her to nag at him and rout him out, he had let himself go as never before: he had forgotten to change

his underclothing or have his hair cut; had neglected his meals, neglected the children lost interest even

in his beloved garden. And for all this they had to thank that horrid spiritualism! During the last few months

it had come to be a perfect obsession with him; and from a tolerably clearheaded person he had turned into a

bundle of credulous superstition. He actually sat for as long as an hour at a time, with a pencil in his hand,

waiting for it to write by itself write messages from the dead. . . and wasn't he angry when she laughed at

This was one thing the chance for him of a complete break with all such nonsense. Again, coming back to

him as it were with fresh eyes, she saw that he was beginning to look very elderly. He seemed to be growing

downwards, losing his height, through always sitting crouched over books; and the fair silky hair at his

temples was quite silvery now, did you peer closely at it. It was hard to think of Richard as old . . . and him

still well under fifty. Yet the coming on of age might account for much. Elderly people did settle into ruts;

and, once fixed in them, were impossible to move. Perhaps his present morbid hankering after change was a

kind of warning from something inside him to shake himself up and get out of his groove before it was too

late. In which case it would be folly and worse than folly, on her part, to try to prevent him.

For his sake then and for his alone. When it came to a question of Richard's welfare, all other considerations

went by the board. One condition, though, she did stand out for, and that was, the house should not be let to

any one, no matter whom, for longer than a year. By then, she was positive, Richard would have had his fill

of travelling, with the varied discomforts it implied, and be thankful to get back to his own dear home.

Thus it came that "Ultima Thule" was put into an agent's hands, and Mary fell to sorting and packing and

making her preparations for the long sea voyage. Not the least of these was fitting the three children out anew

from top to toe. Richard had forbidden them even an armband as mourning for their uncle he was never

done railing at Lizzie for having turned John's three into little walking mountains of bombazine and cr�pe. So

Mary was free to indulge her love for dainty stuffs and pretty colours. And, thought she, if ever children paid

for dressing hers did. The Dumplings were by now lovely, fairhaired, blueeyed threeyearolds, with

serious red mouths and firm chubby legs. They prattled the livelong day; loved and were loved by every one.

Cuffy, dark, slim, retiring, formed just the right contrast. People often stopped nurse to ask whose children

they were. And on this, their first excursion into the big world, nobody should be able to say they were not

Before, however, a suitable tenant for the house had been found Richard turned up his nose at every one

who had so far looked over it (when it came to the point he was the fastidious one of the two) before

anything had been fixed, a note came from Tilly saying she and Purdy had travelled down from Ballarat

overnight, and were putting up at "Scott's." So after breakfast Mary on with her bonnet and drove to town.

She found Tilly in a fine sittingroom on the first floor of the hotel, looking very, very prosperous . . . all silk

and bugles. Purdy was out, on the business that had brought him to town: "So we two have all the morning,

love, to jaw in." As she spoke, Tilly whipped off Mary's bonnet and mantle and carried them to the bedroom,

supplying Mary meanwhile with one of her own caps, lest any one should enter the room and find her with a

bare pate. Then, a second chair having been drawn up for her to put her feet on, a table with cake and wine

set at her elbow, they were free to fall to work. They had not met since Tilly's wedding; and Mary had now to

tell the whole sad story of John's illness and death, starting from the night on which he had unexpectedly

come to consult Richard, and not omitting his queer hallucination the day before he died (an incident she had

so far religiously kept from Richard, as only too likely to encourage his present craze). Next they discussed

Lizzie, her behaviour during John's illness, her attitude to the children and the birth of her boy a peevish,

puny infant to whom, much against her inclination, she thinking the world of her own family and little of any

other, she had been induced to give John's name. And then John's will, "John's infamous will!" as Richard

called it, by which Lizzie was left sole executrix, and trustee of Emmy and the little girls' money (five

thousand apiece), with free use of the interest so long as she provided a home for them under her roof.

"Which, as you can see, Tilly, is about as foolish a condition as the poor fellow could well have made."

Tilly nodded; but suppressed the: "Yes, but oh how like 'im!" that jumped to her lips, on the principle of not

picking holes in the dead. "But what about if Madam marries again . . . eh, Mary? How then?"

Mary nodded ruefully. "Why, then it's the usual thing: she's cut off with a penny; most of her money goes to

the boy; and Richard and Jerry become trustees in her stead." But, extenuating where Tilly had suppressed,

Mary added: "You must remember the will was drawn up directly after marriage, when John was still very

"Lor', Mary, what a picnic!" said Tilly, and sagely wagged her head. "My dear, can't you see 'em? Madam,

gone sour as curds, clinging like grim death to 'er posse of old maids! Poor old Jinn! Poor little kids! Caught

Thence they passed to their own affairs; and Mary told of the fresh uprootal that was in store for her and,

over the telling, let out some of the exasperation that burned in her at the prospect. Tilly was the one person

who would understand what it meant; to whom she could utter a word of complaint. To the world at large

Said she: "Oh, I did think this time, Tilly, he would be content; when he'd got everything he could possibly

wish for. It was a different matter him leaving Ballarat and I couldn't blame him myself for not wanting to

settle permanently in England. But here . . . our nice house . . . his library . . . the garden . . . And the stupid

part of it is I know he'll regret it . . . tire of being on the move long before we can get back into the house. I'm

"Besides, there are the chicks to think of now as well. Their father says the voyage will do them good, and he

may be right. But the voyage isn't everything. What about the change of climate for them while they're so

small? going over into the cold as we shall do. Then, travelling isn't the thing for little children you

know what an excitable child Cuffy is. Besides, just think what it's going to cost us, with three servants,

renting a furnished house in London, making a tour of the Continent and all the rest of it. Richard has such

grand notions nowadays. Economy's a word that has ceased to exist for him. The money's there and it's to be

spent, and that's the end of it. But it does sometimes seem . . . I mean I can't help feeling it would be better if I

But having opened her heart thus, Mary came to a stop: there were things she drew the line at touching on,

and though her hearer was only Tilly. You did not, even to your dearest friend, belabour the point that your

husband was growing old and rusty, stiff in body and in mind. You locked the knowledge up, with a pang,

inside your own heart. Again, Tilly had always made such game of spiritualism. Did she now hear that, from

an interested inquirer, Richard had become an outandout adherent, accepting as gospel the rubbish its

devotees talked, attending sittings which opened with prayers and hymns, just as if they were trying to take

the place of going to church why, at this, Tilly would certainly tap her forehead and make significant eyes,

Besides, it was Tilly's turn now to talk. Tilly had brought a rare budget of gossip with her from the old home;

and no one could give this in racier, more entertaining fashion than she. Mary listened and laughed, throwing

in a reproving: "Now, really, Tilly!" at some of the speaker's most daring shots; growing graveeyed were the

Not till all the old friends had been asked after, did she press nearer home. "And now, Tilly, how about

Tilly laughed out loud. "Indeed and it has, old girl! and no apologies needed. Yes, love, the very best of

husbands. But I was right as rain, Mary, in what I said beforehand no spendthrift as I'm alive! Why, 'e

even goes to the other extreme, love, and holds the pursestrings a bit tighter than yours truly 'as been used

to. Though it's not for me to complain, my dear, considering 'ow he handles money. I'm still a bit dazed by it

myself. A born knack with the shekels, and that's the truth! I declare to you, old Pa's leavings have almost

doubled in these six months. Purd's got a sort of secondsight, which tells 'im to the minute what o'clock it is.

All that was wrong with him, Mary, was never having enough of the needful to show what 'e was made of."

But it would not have been Richard if he hadn't made ironical remarks. Wait till the bloom was off the grapes,

said he, and then see how the land lay. For, if Purdy had started speculating already . . .

"Ah, but Tilly says he has a kind of sixth sense for the ups and downs of the market."

"Many a wife thinks the same, till the crash comes. But you know my opinion of the national vice."

"Well, you'll be able to judge for yourself. I've asked them to dinner this evening."

"Now, Richard . . . when Tilly's in town for the first time since her wedding. Certainly we have. Besides, I

"Oh Lord, Mary! Am I not at my time of life allowed to know what interests me and what doesn't?"

"Well, I shan't see Tilly again for ever so long. I do beg you to be nice to her, dear . . . to both of them," said

And when the time came he was . . . of course he was: with the near prospect of escape from people, Richard

invariably found it easy to be charming to them. Another thing, she had pandered to his weak side by

preparing a very choice little dinner; and she wore one of his favourite dresses a black velvet gown, with

But without a doubt, the main reason for his amiability was the immense improvement that had taken place in

Purdy: it was noticeable even as the latter entered the drawingroom. In appearance he would, it was true,

never be very much, what with his limp, and so on; and his lack of distinction was doubly remarkable when

Richard was present, who was so slender and aristocraticlooking. But his aggressiveness had gone; he was

no longer up in arms against the world. Gone, too, was the dreadful boasting that had so set Richard against

him; and he had quite given over telling tiresome stories . . . thanks, thought Mary, to having married one of

the most sensible of women. At the single threatened lapse into his old tone, she distinctly felt Tilly seek and

"Didn't I say she'd pull him into shape?" and: "Upon my word, wife, if ever there was an exploded notion, it

is that the possession of this world's goods makes for evil. Why, there was actually a trace of his old self

The ormolu clock on the drawingroom mantelpiece had just chimed eleven. Mary was giving her toes a final

toast before retiring, Richard securing the hasps and bolts of shutters and French windows.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Mary; but with an absent air. She was thinking of Tilly dear old Tilly in whom

the change had been no less marked. Looking very buxom and rather handsome in magenta velvet, Tilly had

sat smiling broadly, but with less to say for herself than ever in her life before. Instead of paying attention to

Richard, as she ought to have done, she had all the time been listening to Purdy, drinking in his words, and

signing to Mary to listen, too, by many a private tilt of the brows. So palpably eager was she for him to shine

that she had been unable to resist breaking in with a: "Oh, come now, Purd, take a leetle bit of the credit to

yourself! it was his doing really, Mary, and no one else's, though 'e tries now to make out it was Blake's."

And at Purdy's: "Forgive my old woman's dotage, you two . . . it's still kissingtime with us, you know!"

Meanwhile Richard was saying from the hearthrug, where he stood nursing his coattails: ". . . an interesting

chat after you had left the room, my dear. I was hearing all about the Mitcham case from within the big

mining suit, you know, that has created such a scandal in Ballarat. . . you must remember old Grenville of

Canterbury Station, his deafness and his expletives, and those enormous black cigars he always had one

"Yes. . . he had rather a way with the ladies. Well, as I was saying, this fellow Blake Purdy swears by was

one of the partners in the company formed after old G. had sold his mine at a dead loss, mind you, and on

the express advice of his confidential manager, who, directly after, became a promoter of the new company.

When the output suddenly redoubled and the shares began to soar, old Grenville, naturally enough, thought

he had been done, and sued them for fraud. The jury could not agree. Now, there's rumour of a settlement. If

it takes place, it is calculated that the shares will rise in value by two to three hundred per cent. Purdy stands

But Mary pursed her lips and looked dubious. "Well, I don't know, Richard . . . I must say it sounds to me

"Hm . . . well, myself I prefer to keep clear of that sort of thing. All the same, Mary, I couldn't help thinking

what a terrible slowcoach old Simmonds is, compared with these modern brokers one hears of. One never

gets any inside information from him for the very good reason that he doesn't know it himself."

"And what do you say to the house? Wasn't it a funny thing Purdy tumbling across some one, like that?" she

hastened to add, in an attempt to divert his mind from old Simmonds's shortcomings.

For amongst other news Purdy had had a titbit for them. Only that very day, it seemed, in the coffeeroom of

the hotel, he had run up against a squatter from Darumbooli who was on the lookout for a furnished house,

standing in its own grounds and not too far from the sea, where he could settle wife and daughters while the

latter attended a finishing school. Purdy had at once thought of "Ultima Thule" and extolled its beauties: its

lawns and shrubberies and fruit gardens, its proximity to the sea. The squatter had pricked up his ears and, if

Whereupon the last trace of Mahony's starchedness had melted, in a glow of gratitude and content.

THAT night he could not sleep. To begin with, he had been unused of late to an evening's talk: bits and

scraps of it went on buzzing round his brain, long after he lay abed. Then, something he had eaten had

disagreed with him: Cook's shortcrust must have been too rich, or the pears overripe. He tossed and turned,

to the disturbance of poor Mary; tried lying high, lying low, counting sheep and other silly tricks, all to no

purpose: before an hour had passed, the black thoughts of the night those sinister imaginings born of

Their approach was stealthy. For he had gone to bed in high feather at the prospect of at last securing a

tenant. Weeks had dragged by, and the house was still unlet. He fumed as often as he thought of it. To put a

house like his on the market and get no offers for it! Sell? . . . yes; he could have sold three times over. But

the idea of renting a place ready furnished seemed not to enter the colonial mind. Now, however, if Purdy

was to be trusted. .. A rich squatter, too. . . willing no doubt to pay a good price for a good thing though

this condition was not, God be thanked, the sine qua non it would once have been. Still, money was money;

you could not have too much of it . . . especially here. Give a man means and you gave him friends and

favours, and a rank second to none. To take a petty instance: what had money not done for the very person

they had had before their eyes that evening? From the seedy little downatheel of a year back, Purdy had

been metamorphosed into . . . well, at least rendered presentable enough to bid to your table. Money had

restored his shrunken selfrespect. It had also brought out in him talents which not his oldest friends had

guessed at. That Purdy, of all people, should prove a dabster in the sharemarket! exchange to such good

purpose barparlour for "Corner." No doubt the years he had spent hobnobbing with every variety of

individual had sharpened his wits. You saw something of that in the shrewd choice he had made of a broker.

For, three parts of the game, did you enter the big gamble, depended on having a wideawake adviser at your

elbow. And this man Blake, of whom they had heard so much that night, did actually seem to be one in a

One in a thousand . . . one in a thousand . . . a thousand . . . Mahony was on the point of dropping off, to the

rhythm of these words, when a vague uneasiness began to stir in him; more exactly, when he became abruptly

aware that, deep down in him, a nagging anxiety had for some time been at work. Coming to with a jerk, he

sent his thoughts back over the evening. What was it? . . . what had happened to prick him, when all had

seemed to go so smoothly? He groped and groped. Then . . . ha! . . . he had it. Simmonds. The name whizzed

into his mind like a dart; like a dart stuck there, and was not to be plucked out. And no sooner had he found

this clue than, with a rush, a swarm of vexatious thoughts and impressions was upon him. His apparent good

spirits were all humbug; at heart he had been depressed by the tale of Purdy's successes. They had made him

feel a back number, an old fossil, who had to learn from some one he had always looked down on as his

inferior, what was actually happening in the financial world. And for this he held Simmonds to blame. What

was the use of a confidential agent who did not keep you up to the mark? Not that he wanted to speculate;

or at least not as the word was here understood. But he wished to feel that he could have done so, and with as

much aplomb as anybody, did the fit take him. And brooding over the chances he had no doubt missed and

even at this moment might be missing: at a picture of himself lying high and dry, while one and another

mere whippersnappers like Purdy floated easily out to fortune, an acute irritation mastered him.

He turned his pillow, and, even as he did so, told himself that the fault had been not Simmonds's, but his own.

Yes, the truth was, he had had no ambition. Otherwise, why have laid his affairs in the hands of such a

humdrum? and, what was worse, have left them there. Honest? yes: but so was many a noodle honest:

and in these new countries honesty alone, unbacked by any more worldly qualities, stood not an earthly

chance. And again a vision danced before his closed lids. He saw the thousands he had failed to make

thousands that grew to hundreds of thousands as he watched fluttering just beyond his grasp, though

within easy reach of others. And now, to sting him, the earlier bitterness returned . . . in the form of a galling

envy. To see Purdy, the foolish harumscarum, the confessed failure, the mean little commis voyageur to

see such a one about to pass, surpass him, in means and influence: this was surely one of the bitterest

And here, seizing its chance, a further fear insinuated itself. What if it should not end with this? Simmonds

being what he was, might he not fail in other ways as well? let what he already held slip through his

fingers, and he, Mahony, wake one morning to find himself a poor man? A shiver ran down his spine at the

thought, and he made a feverish movement: he would have liked to throw off the bedclothes, and go hotfoot

to call Simmonds to account. Since he was condemned to lie like a log, his imagination did the work for him,

running riot in a series of pictures . . . till cold drops stood out on his forehead.

Sitting up he fumbled for a handkerchief. The change of position brought him a moment's calmness. Good

Lord, what was he doing . . . working himself into such a state. It was like those bad old times when he had

had to worry himself half to death about money . . . or the lack of it. He drank a glass of water, and rolled

Scarcely, however, had his head touched the pillow when he was off again, stabbed by yet another nightmare

thought. What if it should be a case of fraud on Simmonds's part? Might not the lethargy, the stolid honesty

be but a pose? the cloak to cover a rascally activity? Like the confidential agent whose doubledealing

they had heard of that night, it would be child's play for Simmonds, just because he appeared so straight and

aboveboard, to fleece his clients or at least such among them as gave him the open chances he, Mahony,

had. Careless, distraught, interested in everything rather than in money, he had ambled along unthinking as a

babe, leaving Simmonds to his own devices for months, nay, years, at a time. Now, he could not wait for

daylight to get his affairs back into his own hands. If only he were not too late! And thus on and on, ever

deeper into the night, his suspicions growing steadily more sinister, till there was no crime of which he was

not ready to suspect his man of business. A dozen times he had trapped him, unmasked him, brought him to

justice, before he fell into a feverish doze, in which not Simmonds but himself was the fugitive, hunted by

two monstrous shadow policemen who believed him criminal before the law. Waking with a terrific start he

pulled himself together, only at once to sink back in dream. This time, he was being led by Purdy and some

one strangely resembling that bottlenosed Robinson who had played him a dirty trick over an English

practice, to a cemetery, where stood a tombstone bearing Simmonds's name. Why, good Lord! the fellow's

dead . . . dead? . . . and what of me? "Who's got my money? Where is it? Where am I?" cried Mahony aloud

and woke at the sound of his own voice to see pale lines of light creeping in at the sides of the windows.

His pulse was bounding, Mary sleepily murmuring: "Oh dear, oh dear, what is the matter?" Rising, he

At breakfasttime he emerged pale and peevish, to a day that proved hardly less wearing than the night had

been. One, too, that called for a clear brain and prompt decisions. For the owner of Darumbooli, Baillie by

name, put in an appearance as arranged an elderly Scot, tanned, sunwrinkled, greywhiskered, with a

bluff yet urbane manner a selfmade man, it was plain, and wholly unlettered, but frank, generous,

honourable: one of nature's gentlemen, in short, and of a type Mahony invariably found it easy to do business

with. Better still, he turned out to be one of your genuine gardenlovers: as the pair of them walked the

grounds of "Ultima Thule," none of the details and improvements Mahony felt proudest of but was observed

and bespoken: the whitestrawberry bed, the oleander grove, the fernery, the exquisitely smooth

buffalograss lawns on which sprays were kept playing. A good garden was, it seemed, a desideratum with

But . . . yes, yes! now came the fly in the ointment . . . he wished not to rent but to buy: had never, he averred,

had any idea of renting a house: it was entirely "that fellow Smith's mistake" ("all Purdy's muddle!"). The

schooling proved another bit of fiction. His daughters were past their school years; of an age to be launched

in society. Darumbooli was up for sale Baillie had already refused a bid of ninety thousand and

Having thus cleared the air and added that, only the day before, he had seen a house at Toorak which, though

not a patch on this, would serve his purpose, he offered a sum for "Ultima Thule," just as it stood, with all its

Mary was speechless when she heard the upshot of the interview; when, too, she saw that Richard's mind

that mind which seemed unable to hold fast to any mortal thing for long together was more than three

parts made up to accept Baillie's offer. And too discomfited to meet this Irish fluidity with her usual wily

caution, she no sooner found her voice than she cried: "Oh, Richard, no! that we can't do . . . we really

can't! Think of all the things we got specially out from home . . . the French tapestry . . . the carpets . . . and . .

Tch! now he had this to go through . . . on top of his bad night, and his own burning irresolution. His nerves

"But, my dear, with such a sum at our disposal, we shall be able to furnish our next house ten times as well.

Look here, Mary, I tell you what we'll do. We'll bring every atom of stuff out with us, from London or Paris:

"Oh, Richard! . . . oh, I do think " For an instant bitterness choked Mary. Then, she could not resist

"My books? Most certainly not! I made that clear on the spot. But how absurd, Mary! What would a man

whose whole life has been spent among sheep and cattle do with my volumes of physic and metaphysics?"

But Mary put on her obstinate face. "Well, my things mean just as much to me as yours to you."

"Now for goodness sake, my dear, be reasonable!" cried Richard, growing excessively heated. "I suppose

even a squatter can use a chair or a sofa; needs a bed and a table; but what, I ask you, would he make of

"It's always the same. I'm to give up everything, you nothing. But if my wishes and feelings can be

trampled on, don't you care about the children? . . . I mean about them all having been born here?"

"Indeed and I do not! I would no more have them tie their feelings to the shell of a house than I'd have

"Oh, there's no talking to you nowadays, your head's so full of windy stuff. But I tell you this, Richard, I

refuse to have my children dragged from place to place . . . as I've been. It's not as if it's ever helped a bit

either, our giving up home after home. You're always wild, at the moment, to get away, but afterwards you're

no happier than you were before. And then, what makes me so angry, you let yourself be influenced by such

silly, trivial things. I believe you're ready to sell this house just because you like the man who wants to buy it,

or because he's praised up the garden. But you'll be sorry for it, I know you will, before three months are out.

"Oh well, my dear," said Mahony darkly, "I'm an old man now, and you won't be troubled with me much

Mary's black eyes flashed, and her lips opened to a sharp retort; then she snapped them to, and said nothing.

The bargain struck for struck of course it was, as she had seen from the first it would be: thereafter it only

remained for Mary to apply her ageold remedy, and make the best of a very bad job. But the present was by

so much the most unreasonable thing Richard had ever done, and she herself felt so sore and exasperated over

it, that not for several days was she cool enough to discuss the matter with him. Then, however, each coming

halfway to meet the other, they had a long talk, in the course of which Mahony sought to make amends by

letting her into some of his money secrets, and she extracted a solemn promise that, except for a mere fringe

a couple of thousand, say, for travelling and other immediate expenses the sum he was receiving (it ran

to five figures) should be kept for the purpose of setting them up anew on their return to the colony. Mahony

bade her make her mind easy. They ought to be able to live as comfortably on their dividends in England, as

here; and the price paid for "Ultima Thule" should be faithfully laid by for the purpose of building, when they

came back, the house that would form their permanent home. "For by then my travelling days will be over.

We'll plan it together, love, every inch of it; and it will be more our own than any house we've lived in."

As he made ready to go to town Mahony recalled, with a smile, his grotesque imaginings of two nights back.

What a little hell the mind could create for a man's undoing! But none the less, though he now ridiculed them,

his nightmares had left a kind of tingling disquietude in their train. He felt he would do well to have a straight

talk with Simmonds, go carefully through his sharelist, and arrange in detail for the conduct of his affairs

But not a couple of hours later, as Mary was on her knees before a drawer of the great wardrobe she was

beginning to dismantle, she heard his foot on the verandah, and the next moment his voice, sharp, querulent,

"Yes, dear? I'm coming. Why, Richard, whatever is wrong now?" For with a despairing gesture Mahony had

"You may well ask. Here's a pretty kettle of fish! It's all over now with our getting away."

"What do you mean? But not here. The servants . . . Come into the bedroom. Well, you do look hot and

She brought him a glass of water, and while he sat and sipped this, she listened to his story; listened, and put

two and two together. Arrived at his agent's office in Great Bourke Street, he had found to his surprise and

annoyance that Simmonds was absent from business. Worse still, had been, for over two months. He was ill,

bedridden yes, seriously ill. "Confound the fellow! I believe he means to die, just to inconvenience me.

Mary! my dream the other night . . . it flashed across me as I walked home. Depend upon it, one doesn't

dream that kind of thing for nothing." Richard's tone was full of gloomiest foreboding.

In place of Simmonds he had been met by a . . . well, by a sort of clerk, who was in charge at least he

presumed so: he had never set eyes on the fellow before, and never meant to again, if he could help it! "To

find a par to his behaviour, Mary, you would need to go back to the early days, when every scoundrelly Tom,

Say? Well, first, it was plain to Mary, he had not known from Adam who Richard was. Without getting up

from his chair, not troubling to take his head out of a newspaper, he had asked the intruder's pleasure in the

freeandeasy colonial fashion which, long as he had lived there, Richard had never learned to swallow.

Besides, not to be recognised in a place he honoured with his patronage was in itself a source of offence.

Haughtily presenting his card (which, she could see, had lamentably failed to produce an effect), he

"Pray, what answer do you think I got? In a voice, my dear, the twang of which you could have cut with a

knife, I was informed: 'Well, in that case, doc., I guess you'll have to keep it snug locked up in your own

bosom, so to say! For the boss lies sick abed, and all the business in the world wouldn't get him up from it.'

Whereupon I clapped on my hat and walked out of the place! In which, as long as Simmonds is away, I shall

not set foot again. But now, as you can see, we're in a pretty fix. All our plans knocked on the head! The

house sold, the agreement signed or as good as signed . . . it's utterly impossible to draw back. Why the

deuce was I in such a hurry? We shall have to go into apartments, Mary take the children into common

Mary let him talk; listened to this and much more before she threw in a mild: "We'll take a furnished house.

There'd be nothing common about that. All the same, I don't believe Simmonds, who has always been so

straight, would put any one in to look after things who wasn't honest, too in spite of uncouth behaviour.

And you can't refuse to deal with a person just because he has no manners. . . and doesn't know how to

"My dear Mary, it has been a oneman show all these years; and the probability is, when the old fellow broke

down he had no one to turn to. But I can assure you, if I left my investments in such hands I shouldn't know a

moment's peace all the time I was away. Besides, if he does die, the whole concern will probably go smash."

Oh, the fuss and the flutter! As if it wasn't bad enough to have your house sold over your head, without this

fresh commotion on top of it. There must surely be something very slipshod and muddleheaded about the

way Richard managed his affairs. She didn't say so, but, had she been in his shoes, she would have known

long ago of Simmonds's illness. As it was, this clerk might have been cheating the clients right and left. But

anything to do with money (except, of course, the spending of it!) had of late years become anathema to

Now he went about with a hand pressed to an aching head; and after putting up with this for some days and

herself feeling wholly at a loss, Mary made a private journey to town to visit Tilly. She would see what that

practical, sagacious woman thought of the situation. Tilly, of course, at once laid her finger on the weak spot

by asking bluntly: "But whyever doesn't the doctor take advice of some of 'is friends? the bigbowwow

"Why, the fact is, Richard hasn't got . . . I mean his friends are not business men, any more than he is. If only

"Well, look here, Poll, I can ask Purd about it if you like. He may know, and if e doesn't, 'e can easily find out

I mean whether old S. is really going to hop the twig or what. Purd has strings 'e can pull."

Mary went home intending to keep silence about her intermeddling at any rate till she saw what came of

it. But Richard was regularly in the doldrums: he had to be comforted somehow. At first, as she had expected,

he was furious; and abused her like a pickpocket for discussing his private affairs with an outsider. "You

know how I hate publicity! As for telling them in that quarter. . . why, I might as well go out and shout them

"Richard . . . you can't afford . . . if you re really set on getting away . . . to mind now who knows and who

But on this point, as always, they joined issue. He accused her of lacking personal dignity; she said that his

ridiculous secrecy over money matters would end by leading people to believe there was something fishy

"Why, I don't know anyone who'd resent it more so proud and touchy as you are! And since home truths

were the order of the day," she added: "You know, dear, its just this: you've only yourself to thank for the fix

you're in. You've cut yourself off from every one, and now, when you need help, you haven't a soul to turn to.

Which was the very truth. He had let slip friends and acquaintances who at this juncture might have been

useful to him; but . . . could one nurse people, the inner impulse to friendship failing, solely from motives of

opportunism? The idea revolted him. True, also, was what she said about the damage to his pride. Not,

however, because they were her friends as she supposed, but because they were the friends they were. Again,

he shrank in advance from the silly figure he was going to cut, did the story get about town how he had sold

his house and packed his portmanteaux, while, all unknown to him, the chief spoke in his wheel had

collapsed. What a fool he would look! Though the fact was, Simmonds had handled his affairs without

supervision for so long, that he had come to look on the fellow as a kind of fixture in his life.

And, in spite of everything, his determination to get away did not weaken. In mind, he had already started

was out on the high seas. Impossible now to call his thoughts home. And the feeling that such a course might

be expected of him that Mary would expect it only served to throw him into a frenzy of impatience;

Then Tilly appeared: he saw her from the window, all furbelows and flounces, and wearing an air at once

important and mysterious. She and Mary retired to the drawingroom; and there he could hear them

jabbering, discussing him and his concerns, as he sat pretending to read. This went on and on would they

never end? Even when plainer tones, and the opening and shutting of doors seemed to herald Tilly's

departure, all that followed was a sheerly endless conversation on the step of the verandah. By the time Mary

came in to him, he was nervily ashake. And her news was as bad as it could be. Old Simmonds was

doomed; was in the last stages of Bright's disease; his place of business would know him no more. Most of

his clients had already transferred to other agents; and Purdy's advice to Richard was, to lose no time in

"Huh! All very well . . . very easily said! But to whom am I to turn, I'd like to know? . . . when there isn't one

honest broker in a thousand. Swindlers damned swindlers! that's what they are, every manjack of 'em.

And here am I, just going out of the colony, and with all this fresh money to invest."

Said Mary: "I've been thinking" (which, of course, meant tittletattling with Tilly), "why not write to Mr.

Henry and consult him? He's such a good business man, and knows so many people. He might be able to

recommend some one to you." But with this suggestion she only added fuel to the inordinate, unreasonable

grudge which Richard still bore every one connected with the old life. "Nothing would induce me! . . . to eat

He was equally stubborn. "Sooner than that if it comes to that! I'll sell right out and take every penny I

"Now, for goodness sake, Richard! . . ." cried Mary; then bit her lip. He was quite capable of carrying out his

However, on this occasion his rashness took another form. After spending the whole of the next day in town,

where he had gone to visit his banker, to settle with his wine merchant, arrange for the storing of his books

and so on, he came home to dinner looking a different man. On her, who had gone about all day with a crease

between her brows, not knowing whether to pack for a voyage or for the removal to another house, he burst

in, and catching her by the waist kissed her and swung her round. "Here's your bear come home. But cheer

Over the dinnertable he gave her particulars. At the end of a bothersome, wasted morning he had dropped

into "Scott's," and there, in the coffeeroom, had tumbled across Purdy. ("What! Purdy?" was Mary's

amazed inner comment, she being as usual hard at work drawing inferences.) Purdy had met him in

friendliest fashion: "I've come to the conclusion, my dear, I've sometimes been rather hard on the boy of

late." They had lunched together, over a chop and a bottle of claret had got talking, and had sat for the better

part of an hour. Naturally the subject of Simmonds's collapse had come up, and the fix it had put him into.

Purdy "'Pon my word, Mary, I saw today he's got his head screwed on the right way!" had given him

various useful tips how to deal with the modern broker, which an innocent old sheep like himself would never

have dreamt of. And then just at the end, as they were making a move, Purdy had scratched his head and

"Blake? Absurd! Good Lord, no! . . . Blake needs watching." (Richard knew all about it tonight.) No, no:

this was no flashy daredevil, but a steadygoing, cautious sort of fellow, who could be trusted to "look after

your interests during your absence, and transmit the interest . . . ha, ha! Oh, and I must tell you this, Mary.

When he said Purdy, I mean 'I believe I know some one who'd suit you, Dick,' where do you suppose

my thoughts flew? They went back, love, to a day more years ago than I care to count, when he used the

selfsame words. We were riding to Geelong together, he and I, two carefree young men heighho!

and not many hours after, I had the honour of meeting a certain young lady . . . Well, wife, if this introduction

turns out but half as well as that, I shall have no cause to complain. Anyway, I took it as a good omen. We

hadn't time then to go further into the matter; but I am to meet him again tomorrow and hear all details."

He rattled on in the highest spirits, seeing everything fixed and settled; and Mary had not the heart to damp

him by putting inconvenient, practical questions. And having said his say and refilled her glass and his own,

he sent for the children they had been hushed back into the nursery for the past three days, while Papa had

a headache. Now, setting his girlies on his knees, with Cuffy standing before him, he told the trio of the big

ship that was coming to take them away, and on which they were to live for weeks, and weeks, and weeks

The Dumplings' eyes grew round. "An' s'all us 'ave bekspup on ze big s'ip?" asked Lallie, the elder of the

"Breakfast and dinner, and tea, and go to sleep in little beds like boxes built on to the wall, and look out of

little windows just big enough for your little heads, and see nothing, wherever you look, but the great, wide

"Ooo! Bekfast, an' dinner, an' tea!" Cuffy had to cut a few capers about the room to let off steam, before

Mary took no part in the merry chatter. And when Nannan had fetched the children, she abruptly came back

to the subject of her thoughts. "Of course you'll see this person Purdy speaks of, see what you think of him

"It seems rather . . . I mean, it seems strange Purdy didn't . . . . And as he is doing the recommending, I can't

"And who wants you to? I'll be very much obliged if you don't interfere! Surely, Mary, I can be trusted to

"Oh, come, Richard. After all . . . I mean it's not so very long ago and nothing would have induced you to

"And pray who was it brought home glowing tales of how splendidly he had got on, thanks to his acuteness

"But as soon as I come into it, or because I come into it, you lose every atom of faith. I wonder if all wives

are as distrustful of their husbands' capabilities. A bad lookout for them if they are."

Mary did not deny the charge. Doubtful she was, and doubtful she remained: an attitude of mind that severely

For his second meeting with Purdy, in which he had planned to be very cautious and to throw out wily

feelers, was a failure. On getting to the hotel he found that Purdy could spare him but a few moments, himself

having an urgent appointment to keep. They did not sit down, and their talk was scampered through at

lightning speed. However, Purdy supplied him with a list of people for whom this man Wilding had acted

wellknown names they were too! and himself undertook to put in a word on Mahony's behalf. In the

meantime it would be as well for him to write and summon Wilding to town. Write? Yes; for now it

turned out that Wilding's business was carried on, not in Melbourne but in Ballarat. Purdy vowed he had

mentioned this fact the day before; but if so, Mahony had failed to hear him. Not that it mattered much,

seeing that he himself was about to leave Melbourne. It might even, he agreed, the majority of his

investments being in Ballarat mines, prove a benefit to have an agent who was on the spot.

Still, the conversation left him visibly less jubilant. While from the interview he had some days later with

Wilding himself, he returned tired and headachy always a bad sign where Richard was concerned. He met

Mary with a: "Well, my dear, all our troubles are now over!" which was true in so far as the business side

of the affair had gone off smoothly. The transfer had been effected, power of attorney given, new investments

arranged for, his existing sharelist overhauled and revised. But . . . well, he had not been very favourably

impressed by the man himself. He could find no likeness in him to the portrait drawn by Purdy and

probably amplified by his own mind, which looked for a second Simmonds of a staid and dignified man

of affairs. No, Wilding was again one of your rough diamonds: overfamiliar, slangy, a backslapper, and,

like every one else here, in a tearing hurry: he hardly bothered to listen to what you said, knew everything

you were going to say beforehand, and better than you. His appearance, too, was against him at least to

one who set store by the fleshly screen. Wilding had a small, oblique eye; fat, pursed lips; fat, grubby fingers

on which flashy rings twinkled; a diamond pin that took your breath away. Also, from an injudicious word he

let drop, the idea leapt at Mahony . . . well, it might be pure fancy on his part . . . or owing to these unlovely

looks . . . besides it was only a fleeting impression . . . vaguely troubling. But come! it would not do to let a

personal antipathy to the man's appearance prejudice you against him . . . as Mary was never tired of

preaching. What though Wilding was no beauty? Whose hands here were impeccably clean? Was this not just

the type of your modern broker, as compared with one of the old school? The main thing, the only thing that

really mattered was that he should prove alert and uptodate. And in this respect his credentials were of the

first water. What was more, it leaked out, in something he said, that Purdy had already been in

correspondence with him over the affair. Might one not safely assume a hint on Purdy's part that he himself

And now, at last, nothing stood in the way of their departure; and preparations were rushed forward that they

might sail by the vessel of their choice. Mahony superintended the sorting and packing of his books, and saw

them carted to a depository; then rearranged the furniture and bought fresh pieces to fill the bare walls where

the bookcases had stood. Next he conveyed the luggage it filled a lorry to the wharf, saw it aboard and

stowed away between hold and cabins. Of these, they had three of the largest amidships; and the best

warehouse in Melbourne had carpeted, furnished, curtained them. No need, this time, for Mary to toil and

They spent the last couple of days at an hotel. And one morning, having received word overnight that the

Atrata was ready to sail, they packed into two landaus and were driven to William's Town. There they found

a pretty crowd assembled. Everybody they knew, or had ever met, had turned out to see them off, headed by

dear old Sir Jake and Lady Devine, the Bishop and Mrs. Moreton, Baron von Krause the famous botanist, old

Judge Barmore and many another, not to speak of Mary's intimate personal friends, Richard's spiritualist

circle, relatives and members of the family. For a full halfhour they were hard at it, shaking hands and

exchanging greetings and farewells. Richard, in his new travelling rig, spruce from top to toe, was urbanity

itself: as indeed how should he fail to be when, within cooee, rode the good ship that was to carry him off?

There was also a generous sprinkling of children present, the colonial youngster never being denied the

chance of an outing. And to Cuffy, standing stiff and important in red gloves and a tasselled sash, came

Cousin Josephine to hiss in his ear: "Ooo . . . aren't I glad I'm not going? Our servant, Mawy Ann, says you'll

pwobably all go to the bottom of the sea!" and then to laugh maliciously at Cuffy's chalkwhite face.

Rowed on board, they found the cabins hardly big enough to house the masses of flowers that had been

deposited in them great stately bouquets in lace or silver holders; lavish sprays; purple and white

arrangements shaped like anchors and inscribed "For remembrance." And beside the flowers were piled cases

of fruit and delicacies, as well as other more endurable keepsakes: scent, and fans, and cushions, and books.

Nor were the children forgotten. Overexcited, the despair of their nurses, Cuffy and his sisters rushed to and

Said Mary in tears: "I think they're the dearest, kindest people in all the world."

The last to leave the ship were Jerry, Tilly and Emmy. Emmy, looking lovely as ever in her deep, becoming

mourning, broke down over the parting and cried bitterly. Mary and Richard too would have liked to

take the girl with them; both as a companion for Mary, and in order that foreign travel might give a fitting

polish to John's eldest daughter. But Lizzie vehemently opposed the plan. Nor was Emmy's own heart in it.

For, since John's death, she had taken upon herself the entire charge of her little brother, heaping on his infant

head all the love that had once been her father's. Hence she could not tear herself away.

Jerry, a bank manager now, the father of a family, and hailing from the township of Bummaroo, had stayed

the night with them at their hotel; and, John being no more, Mary had seized this chance of unburdening

herself to her staid, younger brother, of some of the doubts that haunted her with regard to Richard's present

flighty management of his affairs. Bummaroo was not very far from Ballarat; and Jerry promised indirectly to

find out and keep her informed of what was going on. "Don't worry, old girl. I can easily run over from time

Tilly sat on the edge of a bunk and was very down in the mouth. "Upon my word, Poll, I seem to feel it more

this time than last which is just what a silly old Noah's Ark like me would do, considering it was for

always then, and here you'll be back before the kids 'ave cut their second teeth."

But the last bell went; the ship was cleared, the ladder hauled up; and all the din and bustle of weighing

anchor began. The wind being favourable, the Captain undertook to reach the "Heads" before night; and he

was as good as his word. They made a record voyage down the Bay; and, catching the tide before it turned,

headed straight for the Bight. Mahony, in his old seamood of rare expansiveness, went below to announce

their whereabouts. But by now, thanks to a freshening wind and the crisscross motion of the ship, all was

confusion in the cabins. The Dumplings, very sick, were being hurriedly undressed; Mary and the nurses

staggered about, their hands to their dizzy heads. Cuffy alone was unconcerned: his father found him playing

in the saloon, twirling to and fro on one of the revolving chairs. Here was a chip of the old block! Wrapping

Perched on a capstan, Cuffy followed the proceedings with a lively interest, and to a running fire of

questions. Why was the sea so white and bubbly? Where was it running away to? What were reefs? Why

were lighthouses? Why was a pilot? How did he know? Why did he have such a big boat all to himself?

Why didn't he have a staircase? Did he have his own skin on under the oil? When was the sea shut? . . . and

many another. But gradually the little voice ceased its piping and a silence fell unnoticed by Mahony, who

himself was carried away once more by a splendid inner exultation, at dancing in the open, leaving land

behind. He stood lost in his own feelings, till suddenly he felt the little body his arm enclosed give a great

But Cuffy just nestled closer into the crook of his father's arm and did not reply. He had no words at his

disposal to tell what he felt at sight of nightfall on these wild, grey, desolate seas. Nor did he dare to resolve

the more actual fear of Cousin Josey's implanting, and put the question that burned on his lips: "How far is it

to the bottom?" . . . For perhaps Papa did not know that was where they were all sure to go.

"Come, it's long past bedtime." And lifting the child from his perch, Mahony carried him below.

In the gloom of the cabin the hanginglamp swayed from side to side, with a slow, rhythmical movement;

timbers creaked and groaned; from the pantries came the noise of shifting, slithering china sounds that

" Where have you been? The child will be perished. Well, you'll have to see to him yourself now. We're all

And thereafter, between convulsive fits of retching, she heard from the cabin opposite, where Mahony was

undoing little buttons and untying tapes, the voices of father and son raised in unison:

THE house they took for the winter was in Kensington Gore, and the children walked every day with their

nurses in Kensington Gardens. When first they arrived, the great trees, with branches that grew almost low

enough to be pulled (if you jumped), were thick with leaves, and shady like houses. Then the leaves tumbled

off and lay on the ground, and, when Nannan didn't see you, you shuffled your feet through them, kicking up

a dust and making a noise like crackly paper. Afterwards, men brought brooms and swept the leaves into

heaps and burned them in little bonfires; and then what fun it was to run like blind men, with eyes tight shut,

through the clouds of smoke. You trundled your hoop up and down these paths, but didn't go far away,

because you couldn't see where they ended for mist; and Nannan said you might get lost, or fall into a round

pond. And one day a strange, thick, yellow mist came down, and hid even the path you were walking on, and

made your throat tickle and your eyes sting; and Nannan and Eliza, talking about peasoup, rushed for home,

feeling frightened, big as they were, and having to be helped across the road by a policeman, who made light

After this, Cuffy got a cough and had to take tablespoonfuls of codliver oil, and to stay indoors while the

Dumplings walked. It was dull work. The nursery was so high up that you couldn't see anybody but trees

from the windows, which were barred; and you were not allowed to look out at all, if they were open. Nannan

said looking over made her poor old head dizzy; and she lived in fear of seeing one of them "land on the

pavement." So Cuffy hammered with his knuckles on the panes, making tunes for himself, or beat them out

on his drum or xylophone, till Nannan, sewing by the fire, said her poor old head was like to split.

"Why, no, not so very," said Nannan with a queer laugh: she was buxom, and in her prime.

"As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth," was the cryptic reply, which, far from ending the

conversation, led on through a tangle of question and answer why tongues grew before teeth, what made

teeth, where they came from to the eternal wonder: "Was I born, too?" and "How?"

"A caution, that child, if ever there was one!" said Nannan, in relating this "poser" and how she had queered

it "Only naughty little boys ask things like that, Master Cuffy!" to Eliza and Ann over tea. This was

drunk in a kind of cubbyhole off the night nursery, the three colonials having failed to fraternise with the

posse of English servants who had been taken over with the house: a set of prim, starched pokers these, ran

the verdict; and deceitful, too, with their "sirs" and "madams" to your face, and all the sneery backbiting that

In regard to Cuffy, however, Nannan's opinion was general: an awkward child to deal with. You never knew

what fresh fad was going to get the whiphand of him. For instance his first fear, of Cousin Josey's suggesting

that they would all be drowned, which had preyed on him during the voyage: this allayed, he was haunted by

the dread of being lost, or at least overlooked like a bag or an umbrella in this great, strange,

bewildering place. Even at the pantomime at Drury Lane, he suffered torments lest, when it was over, Nannan

and Eliza should suddenly forget that he and the Dumplings were there and go home without them; and from

the close of the first scene on, he inquired regularly every few minutes throughout the afternoon: "Is this the

end?" till Nannan's patience gave way, and she roundly declared that never would she bring him to a theatre

again. It was the same at Madame Tussaud's the same, plus an antipathy that amounted to a horror of all

these waxen people with their fixed, glassy eyes; and a fantastic fear that he might be mistaken for one of

them and locked in among them, did he not keep perpetually on the move. His hot little hand tugged

mercilessly at Eliza's baggy glove. Yes! more bother than half a dozen children put together. Just a walking

Chief of these, and most tiresome of all, was the idea that he could not or must not sleep of a night, as

long as his father and mother were out. Did they attend an evening party, he tossed restless till their return.

And if in spite of himself he dozed off, it was only to start up with the cry: "Is my Papa and Mamma come

home yet?" Nannan was at her wits' end what to do with him; and more than once boldly transgressed her

instructions about absolute truth in the nursery. For it was not as if Master Cuffy really wanted his parents, or

even wanted to see them. No sooner did he know they were back, under the same roof with him again, than

The mischief was: they were out almost every night. For, in violent contrast to the hermit's life he had been

leading, Mahony was now never happy unless he was on the go. An itch for distraction plagued him; books

and solitude had lost their charm; and an evening spent in his own society, in this large, dark, heavily

furnished house, sent his spirits down to zero. They had brought many an excellent letter of introduction with

them; a carriageandpair stood at their disposal; and so, except for an occasional party of their own, they

went out night after night, to dinners, balls and cardparties; to soir�es, conversaziones and lectures; to

concerts and plays. They heard Tietjens sing, and Nilsson, and Ilma di Murska; Adelina Patti with Nicolini;

and a host of lesser stars. Richard said they must make the most of their time; since it was unlikely they

would ever be on this side of the world again. To which, however, Mary now secretly demurred: or not till

the children are grown up. For, though foreign travel meant little to her, she was already determined that her

In the beginning, she was heartily glad of the change in Richard's habits, and followed him without a grumble

wherever he wished: he wouldn't budge a step without her. But, as week after week went by, she did

occasionally long for an hour to herself; to prowl round the shops; see something of the children; write her

letters in peace. As things stood, it was a ceaseless rush from one entertainment to another, not to mention all

the dressing and redressing this implied. Done, too, with Richard standing irritable and impatient in the hall,

watch in hand, calling: "Now do come along, Mary! can't you hear, my dear? We shall certainly be late."

She comforted herself with the thought that it was not for long: they had taken the house only for a

twelvemonth; and there was talk, as soon as the weather improved, of a trip to Ireland to see Richard's sisters,

and to the Midlands to visit Lisby, now Headmistress of a Young Ladies' Seminary. So, in the meantime,

Mary went without her tea to sit through interminable political debates; or struggled to keep her eyes open at

meetings of learned societies, where old greybeards droned on by the hour, without you being able to hear the

half of what they said. "I suppose it does somebody some good!" thought she. Richard, for instance, who had

read so many clever books and enjoyed teasing his brains. Herself, she felt a very fish out of water.

Nowhere more so than at the spiritualist seances, which, for peace' sake and also because everybody was

doing it she now regularly attended. London was permeated with spiritualism; you hardly met a person

who was not a convert to the craze. The famous medium Home had already retired, on his marriage, into

private life, much to Richard's disappointment, but he had left scores of imitators behind, who were only too

well versed in his tricks and stratagems. The miracles you could see performed! Through the ceiling came

apports of fresh flowers with the dew on them, or roots with the soil still clinging; great dinnertables rose

from the floor; lights flitted; apparitions appeared, spoke to you, took you by the hand. But nothing that

happened could shake Mary's convinced unbelief. She was of those who maintained that socalled

"levitation" was achieved by standing on your toes; the "firetest" by your having previously applied

chemicals to the palm of your hand; while the spirits that walked about were just so much drapery on a

broomstick. And it invariably riled her anew, to see Richard sitting solemnly accepting all this nonsense as if

it heralded a new revelation. Of course, many clever men besides him were the dupes of their own

imagination. Learning and common sense did not seem to go together. She preferred, thank you, to trust the

However, she kept these thoughts to herself, patiently doing all that was required of her in the way of linking

hands in dark rooms, hymnsinging and the rest, with only an occasional silent chuckle at the antics of the

believers. But then came an evening when circumstances forced her hand. Well, yes . . . that was partly true.

They were at a sitting with a medium of whom she had long had her doubts; and, on this night, the evidence

for fraud seemed to her so glaring that she determined to put it to the test. For once, Richard was not beside

her. Instead, on her right, she had a lady who fell into raptures at each fresh proof of the "dear spirits'"

presence. Stealthily bringing her two hands together (as Tilly had long ago instructed her), Mary freed one

from this person's hold; and, when "spirittouches" were again proclaimed by her neighbour (they never

visited her!) she made a grab, and just as she expected, found the medium easily recognisable by her bulk

crouched on her knees inside the circle, with a long feather whisk in her hand. In the dark, and in utter

silence, a struggle went on between them, she holding fast, the medium wriggling this way and that, and

ultimately, by lying almost flat on the floor, contriving to wrench herself free. Not a word did Mary say. But

at the end, when the lights were turned up, it was announced that the "spirits" complained of an

unsympathetic presence in the circle; and after some hocuspocus with slatewriting, etc., she, Mary, was

Richard, pale and extremely haughty, made the best of the situation in face of all these strangers, none of

whom but eyed Mary as if she were a moral pariah. Inwardly he was raging; and he freely vented his anger in

"There you have it! Your mulish obstinacy . . . your intolerable lack of imagination. . . your narrow,

preconceived notions of what can and cannot happen!" Till Mary, too, lost her temper, and blurted out the

plain facts of the case. "I knew her by her figure. What's more, I distinctly felt the big wart she has on the side

But with this, it seemed, she merely displayed her ignorance. For the spirit body, in manifestation, was but

the ethereal shadow cast by the physical, and its perfect duplicate. Richard also went on to crush her with St.

Paul's "terrestrial and celestial"; harangued her on the astounding knowledge of the occult possessed by the

early Christians. It was no good talking. Everything she said could be turned against her.

As she brushed her hair for the night, however, she could not resist remarking, in a final tone: "Well! all I

know is, if these really are spirits who come back, it doesn't make me think much of heaven. That the dead

"Quite so, my dear. You keep your traditional fancy picture of semibirds and harps and crowns. It best suits

a mind like yours to make its heaven as remote and unreal as possible. For the truth is, you no more believe in

"Really, Richard! . . . what next, I wonder? Though I must say, I don't think there's much to choose

between harps and things, and playing concertinas and tilting tables. One's as stupid as the other."

"Well, how else . . . can you perhaps suggest a better way for a discarnate being to make its presence known?

Every beginning is crude and always has been. Though, for that matter, what is the Morse alphabet they

"Oh, I'm not clever enough to argue about these things. But I know this: if I go to heaven, I hope at least to

But when the light was out and they lay composing themselves for sleep, she heard Richard mutter to

himself: "There may be . . . there probably is . . . fraud. And why not? . . . do not rogues ofttimes preach the

gospel? But that there's truth in it a truth greater than any yet dreamed of on that I would stake my

The result of this affair was that Mary no longer frequented seances. On such nights Richard went out alone,

and she sat comfortably by the fire, her feet on the fender, her needlework or the children at hand.

But not for long. As suddenly as Richard had thrown himself into the whirl, so suddenly he tired of it, and at

the first hint of spring it was early February; birds had begun to twitter in the parks, the spikes of the

golden crocus to push up through the grass, and Richard petulantly to discard his greatcoat on one of these

palely sunny days he came home restless to the fingertips, and before the evening ended was proposing to

start, then and there, for the Continent. Why should they not shut up the house, send the children to the

seaside, and jaunt off by themselves, hampered only by the lightest of luggage, and moving from place to

Why not? There was, nowadays, no practical reason why he should scruple to satisfy any and every whim.

And so his roughly sketched plan was carried out. With the sole difference that they took Cuffy with them.

For, as soon as Nannan heard what was in the wind, she marched downstairs and said bluntly, she did not

choose to shoulder the entire charge of Master Cuffy. The child was anyhow but poorly, what with the colds

and things he had had since getting here; a walking mass of the fidgets besides; and if now his papa and

mamma were going away as well, she guaranteed he'd worry himself, and everybody else, into a nervous

fever. Mahony cut short the argument that followed by saying curtly: "We'll take the youngster with us," and

poohpoohed Mary's notion that travelling would be bad for the child. Much less harmful, said he, than

staying behind and fretting his heart out. Besides, Ann would be there. Ann could look after him.

And so it came about that Cuffy journeyed in foreign parts, bearing with him, snaillike, all that stood to him

Of these early travels, the most vivid memory he retained was, oddly enough, the trifling one of being

wrapped in an opossumrug and carried in some one's arms from a train to a ship, and back to a train. But in

those buried depths of his mind to which he had normally no access, a whole galaxy of pictures lay stored;

and, throughout his life, was the hidden spring that released them touched, one and another would abruptly

flash into consciousness. As a small boy they put him in many an awkward fix; for he could never prove what

he said, or even make it sound probable; and, at school, among companions whose horizon was bounded

north, south, east and west by the bush, they harvested him a lively crop of ridicule and opprobrium. ("A

tarnation liar . . . that young Cuffs Mahony!") But there were houses built in water somehow he knew it

and bridges with shops on them. Boats with hoods, too, and men who stood up in them to row with a

single oar. There was a statue so big that you could climb into its nose and sit there, and look out of its eyes:

rivers, not red and muddy but apple green; a tower that leaned right over to one side; longlegged birds that

built their nests on chimneytops. But then again, on the heel of such bold assertions, a sudden doubt

would invade the speaker; a doubt whether he had not, after all, only dreamt these things. With no one to

whom he could turn for confirmation, with every object that related to them lost or destroyed, Cuffy,

throughout his later boyhood, swung like a pendulum between fact and dream, and was sadly torn in

TRAVELLING from Dover to Calais and thence to Paris, the party set off on what, in thought, Mary ever

For, the Channel behind them, Richard's restlessness broke out in a new form: it seemed impossible for him

to be content in any place they visited for more than a day or two on end. In vain did Mary protest: "But,

Richard, we're not seeing anything!" Within a few hours of his arrival in a town, he had had enough of it,

sucked it dry; and was fidgeting to be off to the next on their line of route. Nor was this itch for movement

all. The strange food did not suit him: he either liked it too well and ate too heartily of it, or turned from it

altogether. Then the noisiness of foreign cities the cobbled streets, the rattling of the loosely hung

vehicles, the loud foreign voices, the singing, the tambourining got on his nerves, and, together with the

unshaded windows of hotel bedrooms, kept him awake half the night: him spoilt, for how many a year, by the

perfectly darkened sashes, the ordered silence of his sleepingroom at "Ultima Thule." And all the beauties in

the world could not make up to Richard for lack of sleep. Or, to turn it round: rob him of his sleep, and you

robbed him of all power to enjoy fine scenery or handsome monuments. And so they sometimes arrived at a

place and left it again, without having really seen very much more of it than the four walls of a room.

Before they had got any distance, it became clear to Mary that Richard's travellingdays were . . . well, one

could hardly say over, when they had only just begun. The truth was, they had come too late. He was no

It was not the physical discomforts alone that defeated him. The fancies he went in for, as soon as he set foot

on foreign soil, made his life a misery to him. In Paris, for instance, he was seized by a nervous fear of the

street traffic; actually felt afraid he was going to be run over. If he had to cross one of the vast squares, over

which vehicles dashed from all directions, he would stand and hesitate on the kerb, looking from side to side,

unable to resolve to take the plunge; and wasn't he angry with her, if she tried to make a dash for it! His own

fears rendered him fussy about Cuffy and the maid's safety, too. He wouldn't hear of them going out alone;

and insisted every morning on shepherding them to their walk in the Public Gardens. If he was prevented,

they must drive there in a fiacre. Which all helped to make the stay in Paris both troublesome and costly.

Then there was that time in Strasbourg, when they set out to climb the tower of the cathedral. It was certainly

a bad day to choose, for it had rained in the night and afterwards frozen over, and even the streets were

slippery. But Richard was bent on seeing the Rhine, and the Vosges, and the Black Forest from the top of the

steeple; so up they went. As far as the platform, it was plain sailing. But on the tower proper, when they were

mounting the innumerable stone steps all glassy with ice, and very tricky to keep a footing on which

led to the spire, he turned pale, and confessed to giddiness . . . it was true you looked through the wideopen

stonework right down to the street below, where people crawled like ants. And after another bend in the stair,

he clinging fast to the iron handrail, he had ignominiously to give in and descend again: backwards, too! "I

felt I should either fall through one of the openings or throw myself out. Great heights are evidently not for

And this was not wholly due to imagination. For, after going up the Leaning Tower of Pisa and taking a peep

over the side, he felt so sick on reaching the ground that he had to go back to the hotel and lie down.

Again a beautiful city like Munich was ruined for him, by the allpervading smell of malt from its many

breweries. The whole time they were there he went about with his nose in the air, sniffing; and he never

ceased to grumble. Next, as the Tyrolese mountains were so close, they took train and went in among them;

but this didn't suit him either. The nearness of these drear, dark masses wakened in him, he said, an

overpowering sense of oppression; made him feel as if he must climb them; get to their summits in order to

be able to breathe. One moment abjuring heights, another hankering after them!... who could keep pace with

Of course there were times when he smiled at himself; saw the humour of the situation; especially when he

had just escaped from one of his bugbears. But then came the next (he was never prepared for them) and hit

him equally hard. The thing he couldn't laugh at was his their "infernal ignorance of foreign lingos."

Not to be able to express himself properly, make himself fully understood, riled and fretted him; though less,

perhaps, than did her loud and unabashed efforts to say what she wanted. And because he couldn't argue, or

expostulate, with porters, waiters, cabbies and the like, he constantly suspected these people of trying to do

him. The queer thing was, he preferred being diddled, putting up with it in gloomy silence, to trying, in

broken French, German or Italian, to call the cheats to account. Many an extra franc and taler and lira did this

hypersensitiveness cost him. But his dread of being laughed at was stronger than himself.

Yes! there was always something. He never let himself have any real peace or enjoyment. Or so thought

Mary at the time. It was not till afterwards, when he fell to reliving his travels in memory, that she learned

how great was the pleasure he had got out of them. Inconveniences and annoyances were by then sunk below

the horizon. Above, remained visions of white cities, and slender towers, and vineclad hills; of olive groves

bedded in violets; fine music heard in opera and oratorio; coffeedrinking in shady gardens on the banks of a

lake; orchards of pink almondblossom massed against the misty blue of far mountain valley.

Of all the towns they touched, even including Naples and Rome, Venice suited him best; and this, she firmly

believed, because he went there with the idea that, having neither streets nor wheeled traffic, it must of

necessity be a quiet and restful place. Herself she noticed nothing of this. Dozens of people walked the

narrow alleys you could really go everywhere on foot and the cries of the gondoliers, the singing and

mandolineplaying lasted far into the night. But Richard throve on it; though it was June now, and very hot,

and alive with mosquitoes. He bathed daily on the Lido, and for the rest of the day kept cool in

picturegalleries and churches, of which he never seemed to tire. Whereas she, after half an hour of screwing

They had been there for a whole fortnight, and there was still no talk of their moving on,when something

happened which cut their stay through as with a knife. The smallest details of that July afternoon it started

Richard had gone after lunch to the British Consul's, to fetch their Australian mail: Mary was anxiously

waiting for news of the birth of Tilly's child. She wrote at her own home budget while expecting his return,

sitting in the cool hotel bedroom with Cuffy playing on the floor beside her. Deep in her letter, she did not

notice that the child had strayed to the balcony. How long he had been there, still as a mouse, she did not

Laying down her pen, she stepped through the window. "What's the matter with you?"

On the opposite side of the canal some men were engaged in drowning a puppy. They had tied a weight to the

little animal's neck before throwing it into the water, but this was not heavy enough to keep it down; and

again and again, in a desperate struggle for breath, it fought its way to the surface, only to be hit at with sticks

did it come within arm's reach. Finally, amid the laughter of the crowd, the flat side of an oar caught it full on

its little panting snout and terrified eyes. With a shriek that was almost human, it sank, not to rise again.

"Run inside, Cuffy. Don't stay here watching those nasty cruel men," said Mary, and took him by the arm.

But Cuffy tore it away and remained standing with dilated eyes and open lips, breathing rapidly. The last

blow struck, he burst into a passion of tears and, running to a corner of the room, threw himself face

There followed one of those dreadful exhibitions of rage or temper which Mary found it so hard to reconcile

with her little son's usual docility. Cuffy kicked and screamed and wouldn't be touched, like the naughtiest of

children; and at the same time was shaken from head to foot by sobs about which there was nothing childish.

She was still bending over him, still remonstrating, when the door opened and Richard came in. One glance at

"Richard! Why, my dear . . . why, whatever is the matter?" For he had gone out, not an hour earlier, in the

best of spirits; and here he came back white as a ghost, with dazedlooking eyes and shuffling feet. "Are you

Pouring himself out a glass of water and spilling it as he poured, Richard drank, in a series of gulps. Then,

from a bundle of newspapers and letters he was carrying, he drew forth a folded sheet and handed it to Mary.

In deep apprehension she took the paper. As she read she, too, went pale. It was a telegram from Jerry,

forwarded by their London banker, and ran: Return immediately. Most urgent. Wilding absconded America.

"Mean? Ruin, I suppose. In all probability I am a ruined man." And dropping heavily on a chair, Mahony

"Ruin? But how? . . . why? Oh dear, can't you speak? No, no, Richard! What are you thinking of? Remember

the child." From under his hands tears were dripping on the table. "Go to Ann, Cuffy. She shall take you

out or give you your tea. Run away, dear . . . quickly! Now, Richard, pull yourself together. It's no good

Stifling her own alarm, Mary sat down at his side and took his hand in hers. It was plain he had had a severe

shock. He admitted as much himself: the thing had come so suddenly. He told how, out of the dazzling

sunshine he had stepped into the cool office at the consulate, had passed the time of day with a clerk, had

Yes, he had not even stopped talking as he tore it open. The next moment the room had started to swing

round him; he had been obliged to take a seat, every one staring at him, eyeing him askance. How he

managed to get out of the place and home, he didn't know. His mind seemed to have escaped control: felt like

a child's puzzle that had been rudely jolted into hundreds of pieces, and had now all to be reset. "Which I

don't feel equal to, Mary and that's the truth. Something seems to have broken inside me."

Oh, how like a bad dream, the remainder of that day! For the practical side of the matter could not wait

not for a single hour. Richard halfway restored to composure, they had to set to work in cold blood to

discuss the situation. It was clear to both that he must return to Melbourne with the least possible delay. Till

then, he would not know how he stood. Things might not, urged Mary, be quite so black as they looked at

first glance, Wilding's absence yet prove capable of a rational explanation. But Richard, she could see, feared

the worst . . . had no real hope of this. (And in her heart even she thought the tone of Jerry's message belied it.

Oh, where would they have been, had she not had that private confab with Jerry the night before sailing!) No,

the conclusion Richard had jumped to at first reading, he still maintained: after the fashion of many a

dishonest broker, Wilding had sold the scrip he held from his clients and bolted with the proceeds. Now, the

only question was: what was left; what could be saved from the wreck. A mail steamer was due to leave

Venice some time during the week; and on this Richard must, if humanly possible, secure a berth. And the

rest of the day passed in running from wharf to agent, from consul to banker. The money question had also to

be gone into: what he still had in hand; how much remained on his letters of credit; what balance lay in the

London bank. Then they had to think of the furniture, the curios and pictures they had bought on their travels,

and sent back to England. The London house would have to be got rid of; the servants paid off, and so on.

Before evening Mary's brain was reeling with all the details it was necessary for her to take in. But this rush

and flurry was exactly what Richard needed. And she kept him at it, kept him on the go till late at night, with

But he had hardly dozed off, when they were roused by Cuffy starting up in his sleep, screaming: "No, no! . .

Hastily informed what had happened, Mahony struck a light and rose; and forgetting himself over a trouble

even more pressing than his own, he lifted Cuffy out of bed and set him on his knee There he talked to him

as, thought Mary, only Richard could talk. He went through the scene of the afternoon, made the child, amid

tears and frantic sobs, live through it afresh; then fell to work to dispel the brooding horror that lay over it.

Such things as this were often to be met with in life; Cuffy must be a brave little man and face them squarely.

Somehow, they all fitted into a great scheme on God's part, which our poor brains were too puny to

understand. To be pitied was not only poor doggy, whose struggles had soon ceased, but also the men who

could act so cruelly towards their little brother no less a brother because he had not the gift of speech.

Cuffy must try to feel sorry for them, too; they had probably never had any one to teach them the difference

between right and wrong. And he must make up for their want of love, by being doubly kind himself to all

dumb creatures. And so on and on, in a quiet, soothing voice, till the child's terror was allayed and he

Fortyeight hours later Richard, with for luggage a single portmanteau, boarded the Overland Mail for Egypt

and thus ended a two days' nightmare in which he had never ceased to torture himself with the bitterest

reproaches. "It is all my fault . . . my own fault . . . I alone am to blame. If only I had not been so headstrong .

. . had listened to you!" The last glimpse Mary had of him showed him standing at the taffrail of the tender

that carried passengers to the steamer; standing very erect, and even making a brave attempt to smile, as he

waved his hat in farewell; for, when the time came, his chief thought was of her, and how he could ease the

Till now Mary had kept up; had had, indeed, not a moment to think of herself, so busy had she been

consoling, supporting, encouraging. But now that everything was over and she sat alone in the hotel bedroom,

all she had gone through, all the conflicting emotions of these two past days not the least of which were

selfreproaches every whit as bitter as Richard's own took toll of her. Behind locked doors she broke

The thought of her coming loneliness appalled her. For over twenty years she had never been absent from

Richard for more than a few weeks at a time . . . had never been parted from him by more than a couple of

hundred miles. Now, this violent abrupt separation, with all the seas between, made her feel as if she had

been roughly torn in two. For months and months to come she would have no one to lean on, no one to

consult oh, what if one of the children should fall ill and Richard not be there? She also shrank, with the

timidity of unuse, from the prospect of having to emerge from her womanly seclusion and rub shoulders with

the world. Her work had invariably been carried on in the background. When it came to a personal contact

with business and business people, Richard had always been there, to step forward and bear the brunt. Now

she, who had travelled but the briefest of distances unescorted, was called on to undertake by herself, not only

the far journey across the Continent, but the infinitely more trying one of a two to three months' seavoyage

round the Cape. And until she got on board! To be faced, before that, were railway officials, porters,

houseagents, shipping companies, bankers; the drawing of cheques and the paying of bills; the dismissing of

servants; the packing and transport of baggage and furniture, the embarking, the long, long voyage with but

one nurse for the children, and nobody at all to look after her. But hardest of anything was the knowledge that

she would have to remain in her present state of ignorance and uncertainty, knowing nothing of what had

actually happened, or of how Richard was bearing up, and whether he was well or ill, until she herself landed

But the barest hint of illness in connection with Richard was enough to make her mind swerve, with a sudden

jerk, from herself and her own troubles, to him. Desperately as she would miss him, and need him, yet she

had small doubt something within told her so that, when she stood face to face with things, she would

contrive to get on somehow. But he! how would he ever manage without her? . . . to nerve him and to

soothe him, and to listen to his outpourings away from her, he quite literally would not have a soul to

speak to. She saw him on the outward voyage, eternally pacing the deck, a prey to blackest anxiety and

the last thought of self went under, in a fierce uprush of pity for him, so solitary, so self centred, so

selftormented. Oh, that he might be spared the worst! He was old for his age; much too old to have to begin

life afresh life which, with every caprice satisfied, had yet become so hard for him: an hourly tussle with

flimsy, immaterial phantoms, whose existence other people never so much as dreamed of. And to know him

pinched for money again, going short, denying himself, fretting over the straits to which he had brought her

and the children . . . no! Mary felt there was nothing, absolutely nothing she would not do, to help him, to

Well! . . . sitting crying wasn't the way to begin. That was a fool's job. She must just set her teeth and make

the best of things separation, uncertainty, responsibility endeavouring, when it came to business, to

stand her ground, even though she was but an inexperienced woman. And as a first step she got up, dried her

eyes, and bathed her face. After which she had trunks and saratogas brought out, and fell to packing

But more and more, as the day wore on, did a single thought take possession of her and, in this thought,

Mary came as near as she ever would, to a conscious reflection on the aim and end of existence. It began with

her suddenly becoming aware how she longed to hug her babies to her again, and how much she had missed

them; a feeling until now resolutely repressed . . . for Richard's sake. Now, as, in imagination, she gathered

her little ones to her heart and gathered Richard with them, he, too, just an adored and absent child it

came over her like a flash that, amid life's ups and downs, to be able to keep one's little flock about one, to

know one's dearest human relationships safe and unharmed, was, in good truth, all that signified. Compared

with this, hardships and misfortune weighed no more than feathers in the balance.

"As long as we can be together . . . as long as I have him and my children . . . nothing really matters. I can